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MILLIONAIRE AND MISER 


By MRS. E. LYNN LINTON 


F^KST HAI.F. 




.>•<». 880. NliMBEIt. 




PZ 3 


L658 


COPY 1 


-37 T0 27 VAIsfDEVv>TEf^3l 


Editio^ Issued Triweekly. B. 

;oi)(/rl(;hted 1886 by George Munro— Entered at the Post Office at New 1 


, - per auiiuiu. 

I class rates— Nov. 18, 1886 


PKlCi: 20 CIOI^XS. 




THE KING OF STORY PAPERS. 


THE 

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A PAPER FOR THE HOME CIRCLE. 

PUEE, BRIGHT AND INTERESTING. 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the 
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A Fresh Sermon by Key. T. De Witt Talmage is 
Published in Every Number 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION is the most interesting weekly paper 
published in the United States, embracing in its contents the best Stones, 
the best Sketches, the best Humorous Matte , Random Talks, Fashion 
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Among the contributors to The Fireside Companion are Mary E. 
Bryan, Lucy Randall Comfort, Mrs Alex. McVeigh Miller, Laura Jean 
Libbey, “ Old Sleuth,” Charlotte M. Braeme, author of ” Dora Thorne,” 
Mary C. Freston, Annabel Dwight, Clyde Raymond, Kate A. Jordan, 
Louise J. Brooks, Charlotte M. Stanley, etc. 


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BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER: 

A FEW DATS AMONG 

OUR SOUTHERN BRETHREN. 

BY HENRY M. FIELD, D.D., 

Author' of “ From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Homf' “ FVori 
to Japan," “ On the Desert," “ Among the Holy Hills," and 
“ The Greek Islands, and Turkey after the War." 


Of Doctor Field’s new book the New York Observer says: “ Doctor Fi» 
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letters from our own United States, and which he has called ‘ Blood is Thic 
THAN Water,’ will be judged by many to be the best. of all.” 

The New York Independent says: “ The volume has a large part of its charm 
in the fact that it is brimming over with reminiscences of the war, pictures of 
battles succeeded by peace, with handshakings of Federals and Confederated, 
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tional faith. While the volume is written for the ordinary intelligent reader, 
may we venture to remark that it is just such a book as we would like to put in 
the hands of the young; and which, though not professedly a religious book, 
we should be very glad to have shove out of tlie Sunday-school Library many 
more pious but really less Christian and less useful volumes.” 

The New York World says: ” Doctor Field’s brilliant descriptions of the 
scenes visited, his reminiscences of the war, taken from the lips of ex-Conf eder- 
ate officers, the vivid contrast he draws between the horrors of battle and the 
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together in the strength and affection of indissoluble imion.” 


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PASTON CAREW, 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


BY 

MBS. E; 'LYNN LINTON. 


FIBST HALF. 

R, - - 


NOV 24 1886 '■ 


NEW YORK ; 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewateu Street. 




MRS. E. LYNN LINTON^S \YORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION); 


NO. PRICE. 

122 lone Stewart ..... ... 20 

817 Stabbed in the Dark 10 

886 Paston Carew, ^Millionaire and Miser, First half . 20 
886 Paston Carew, IVIillionaire and Miser. Second half 20 


Paston Oarew, Millionaire and Miser. 


CHAPTER I. 

MR. CLINTOK^'S HOUSEKEEPER. 


Fifty years ago a grave scandal had troubled society at 
Beaton Brows, and Maurice . Clinton, of Clinton Hall, had 
been both the subject and the cause. The Clintons, who 
had held their lands since the time of Edward the Sixth, 
W^re the most notable family on the whole east side of Fell- 
shire; and their example was looked up to as one it was 
righteousness for meaner folk to follow. When, therefore, 
young Maurice, the then holder of the estate and setter of 
the lines of public conduct, outraged morality and offended 
society by his domestic arrangements at the Hall, the 
smaller gentry were sore put to it to know how to order 
themselves between those two opposing forces — respect for 
virtue in the abstract and their inherited allegiance to their 
local lord. 

What made the matter worse was the traditional honor 
of the family name. To be sure, there had been a black 
sheep here and there — a Covenanter to shame his Royalist 
kinsmen; a ruffian in the dislocated times of the second 
James, who had flouted the law, defied God and the devil 
alike, devoured of his flock such ewe lambs as pleased his 
passing fancy, taken by force such pastures as suited the 
lay of his land, and knocked on the head those inconven- 
ient rebels who had opposed him; a drunkard in the Prince 
Regent ^s time — and so forth. B ' " 



had been wise-and- well- walking 


made this lapse of the present head as eccentric as it was 
grievous. 

The whole thing was inexplicable. If he loved her, why 
did he not marry her? If he did not love her, why did he 
keep her? 

The men said among themselves: “ All these things are 


6 


PASTOK CAREW, 


simply questions of pounds^ shillings, and pence. Let him 
pay so much down and wash his hands clear of the whole 
disreputable affair. The jade will then have another chance, 
and may make an honest woman of herself. 

The ladies took a higher tone, and waxed wroth over 
the shameless immorality of the transaction. So far 
from so much down, buying off with a pension, and giving 
the jade another chance in life, they held the Penitentiary 
to be the only -solution of the matter. It touched them 
nearh^ as Christian mothers, to see Clinton Hall shut 
against their daughters by reason of this unhallowed con- 
nection. As the conservators of the purity of society and 
the virtue of their own sex, as well as the guardians of their 
daughters^ interests, they were indignant that the finest 
estate in the county should be in a manner mortgaged to a 
Creature who ruled as mistress under the name of house- 
keeper, and who, as the unmarried mother of her u^ast^^ 
acknowledged child insulted the collective womanhood of 
Beaton Brows and put its maidens to the blush. 

Meanwhile, Maurice Clinton and his housekeeper, Patty 
Carew — the Creature in question — lived with their boy 
tranquilly enough under the shadow of the ancestral oaks 
and elms; and neither was the position legalized nor the 
association discontinued, nor yet was any sign of wavering 
nor of remorse given by those concerned. Patty Carew 
was just Mr. Clinton ^s housekeeper as she had been from 
the beginning; and if she drove about the country with her 
master like his wife, dressed gorgeously in velvet and furs, 
and had a child to whom she had to give her own name, 
what was that to others? Is not a man master of his own 
affairs? and is not hi*s house his castle? 

Patty, as mistress at the Hall, made a pretty good thing 
by her position, financially speaking. Maurice was as easy- 
going in expenditure as he was loose in morals; and, pro- 
vided he kept within his income and was saved all trouble, 
he did not fret about apportionment. He paid the bills 
when they were laid before him, and did not look too curi- 
ously to details. Isor did he ask how Patty was able to 
make so grand a show on her stipulated wages of eighty- 
four pounds a year — seven pounds a month, at the top of 
the page, with the rest of the domestics in due order, ac- 
cording to amount, below. Hor yet did he ask if the ab- 
normally high salaries set against the names of these others 


MILLIOKAIRE AND MISER. 


7 


— salaries higher than her own, some of them running into 
three figures — were duly paid over to them. Nor would he 
listen to the various complaints of insufliciency, in more 
departments than one, which some of the bolder spirits 
sought to make. It was Mrs. Carew^s business, he would 
say, not his. If they had any fault to find, let them go to 
her, which was not even appealing from Philip drunk to 
Philip sober, but rather from the lioness in the jungle to 
the lioness in the cave — with such consequences to follow 
as might be expected. 

For his own amusement Maurice devoted himself to vari- 
ous forms of playing at art. Now he took up photogra- 
phy, and photographed Patty and the boy, the dogs, the 
horses, the Hall, the garden, the trees, and the ferneries, 
in every conceivable attitude and aspect. Then he set up 
a lathe, and turned legs for chairs and pedestals for tables 
till the house was filled with supernumerary supports. 
Then he etched on glass and marble, and then went olf to 
wood-carving and fretwork. He covered the walls with 
brackets, and stuck finials on every available point; put 
up engraved tablets, and let in pictured windows wherever 
he could; and finally, as his last resource, took to modeling 
in clay, which was what the Scotch call a grand ploy,"’*' 
and kept him occupied to the end. As few people called 
on him to see for themselves what he had really done, his 
fame grew in obscurity, as fame always does, like mush- 
rooms in the dark; and he was credited with mastership 
where he had barely attained facility. 

The cause of all this wasted drift-weed, where should 
have been good tillage and rich harvests, was the old, old 
story by which so many good lives have been wrecked. 
After Martha French had refused him, the wealthy proprie- 
tor, and married instead his cousin Humphrey, the penni- 
less lieutenant, with only his handsome face, exiguous pay, 
and magnificent voice as her settlements, nothing seemed , 
of much worth to poor Maurice. He had made his one 
cast and had failed, and he had not heart enough left in 
him to try another. His fiber was too soft for either that 
tenacity of sorrow which turns a man into a pessimist, or 
for that resolution to overcome despair which makes him a 
hero. His grief soon burned itself away; but at the same 
time it burned away the small amount of energy he had 
started with from the beginning. Yet though the world 


8 


PASTON CAREW, 


had lost its attractions for him when Martha French' said 
him nay, he made a luxurious kind of moral nest for him- 
self, where his soul slumbered, and conscience, intellect, 
ambition, and family pride went to sleep with the rest. 

He had fallen in with Patty Oarew when on the fishing 
expedition he had made immediately after his disappoint- 
ment. She was a handsome, clever, shrewd kind of girl, 
with larger ideas of maintenance than her father — close- 
fisted old Joe Oarew,. the village shoe-maker — either in- 
dorsed or gratified. When the fair-haired young gentle- 
man with the fine name and full purse made love to her in 
the moonlight — in chief part because she had the same 
name, white skin, brown hair, and rich red coloring as 
Martha French — she was not scared as a rnore timid, nor 
revolted as a more virtuous, girl would have been. She 
took the proposal as a matter of business, and added up the 
sum with mathematical precision. She thought it all out, 
squarely and coolly, and struck the balance — so much gain 
and so much loss — as if it had been the yield of a potato- 
patch or the eggs of the poultry-yard. She hated* her 
present life and its surroundings, and rebelled against the 
meagerness of material things. She frankly disked that 
miserly old father of hers, who grudged her so much as a 
good dress for Sundays or a pudding on week-days, and 
who rated her in his vigorous vernacular if she took but an 
hour from her work for the play natural to her years. 
Neither had she any fancy for perpetuating her condition 
by marrying one of the louts of her native village. Hence 
she deliberately accepted the position offered to her, trust- 
ing to the infiuence sure to be got by a shrewd, strong- 
minded, good-tempered woman over a man of loose fiber 
and generous impulses not to make shipwreck in her enter- 
prise. 

Her trust was justified. Maurice Clinton was too indo- 
• lent, too good-natured, and in some sense too indifferent, 
to break the association after it was once made. He got 
used to Patty, would have been horribly bored had he had 
to replace her, was fond of the beautiful little boy he knew 
to be his own, and did not care the traditional two straws 
for the world ^s opinion. He gave up hunting as well as 
the kennels, and threw the M.F.H. to his neighbor the rich 
stockbroker, who had been made a baronet by the outgoing 
Ministry last year. Hence he suffered no mortification on 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


9 


the field. He declined all public offices, so was not snubbed 
by his brother magistrates on the Bench nor by his co- 
guardians at the Board. He never went to the county 
balls, nor took part in any public receptions of Illustrious 
Visitors, nor came to the front anywhere. But he sub- 
scribed freely to all charities, parochial and provincial, and 
he did not strain the rector’s conscience by presenting him- 
self at functions and celebrations where Christian charity 
invited and ecclesiastical polity forbade him. In a word, 
he lived the life of a luxurious recluse; grew bald, stout, 
silent, lethargic, drank quite as much wine as was good for 
him, eat a great deal more than replaced the normal waste 
of tissue, and frittered away his time in his various attempts 
at artistic expression, and in pottering about his garden 
and houses, where he grew roses and cultivated orchids. So 
things went on as they had begun, and matters were as far 
from marriage as they were from repudiation, when Paston 
hach reached his twenty-first year, and his future career had 
yet to be decided on. 

But Maurice would have been better content had not his 
cousin Humphrey, with his wife and family, taken Mock- 
Beggar, about six miles from Clinton Hall,' and the next 
best place in the neighborhood. By this time old French 
had died and left his daughter all his handsome fortune; 
and Humphrey had retired from the army with the rank of 
colonel, debts heavy enough to swamp a three-decker, and 
that kind of fluent expenditure which would have emptied 
Pactolus itself. It gave poor Maurice a certain dull sense 
of pain when he first heard the news, and he rather won- 
dered that Martha should have consented, if Humphrey liad 
not had more delicac3^ But beyond a still more restricted 
ordering of his days, a closer confinement to his own 
grounds, and a rarer exit into the country beyond the park, - 
no change was made in his life; and Patty Care w never 
knew the real cause of her master’s increased taciturnity 
and indolence. 

Nor did their son Paston tell either one or the other how 
he had met a young fellow of his own age one day on the 
road — a young fellow whom he knew to be French Clinton, 
Cousin Humphrey’s eldest son— and how he had flung at 
him a vile epithet as he passed, and jeered him for the 
fault which was not his, but theirs. He did not tell, but he 
never forgot. The word stuck and rankled like a poisoned 


10 


P ASTON CAKEW, 


arrow, and in reality both influenced his character and 
modified his career — as a word can do when it falls on the 
sensitive soil of the forming-time of youth. 

The boy had been well and carefully educated, but al- 
ways at home. Partly out of kindness, to save him from 
the inevitable humiliations of his position, partly out of 
self-indulgence, because he liked to have him about the 
place, Maurice had refused to send the lad to school, as 
Patty, wiser and more mentally robust, had wished. But 
a childhood passed without' companionship — a boyhood 
destitute of comradeship, of emulation, of strife, of exam- 
ple — is not the best preparation for the active work of the 
world, nor is it the training which turns out the most capa- 
ble men. Add to the moodiness and self -suppression insep- 
arable from such a training the galling consciousness of his 
position when things became clear for what they were, and 
Prench Clinton '’s insult had its full significance; the war- 
ring in his heart between love for his mother and respect 
for his father; shame for her in that she should submit to 
such a state of things, anger against him in that he did not 
end that state and marry her, as he should have dofie more 
than twenty years ago; add the bitterness natural to a youth 
who has been brought up as a gentleman without the status 
of one, whose father does not give him his name, who can 
not inherit the estate which has been his home, whose 
mother is one no honest woman wlil associate with, and 
whom the very servants secretly despise; add the humilia- 
tion of knowing that he is unrecognized by the law, that he 
has neither name nor legal existence, that he may marry 
any one he will within the Table of Prohibited Degrees, so 
entirely is he ignored and beyond the pale; add up all these 
facts and thoughts into one lump sum of mental influence, 
and we can well understand how Paston Carew should be 
the most miserable youth in the world, eating out his heart 
in vain regrets, and fighting blindly against the fate which 
had struck at him so cruelly. And being miserable, he 
was by logical consequence disagreeable in temper and a 
most unpleasant companion in the house. 

Evidently something ' must be done. Maurice Clinton, 
peace-loving and self-indulgent, was intolerant of unpleas- 
ant tempers. Patty had kept the box-seat because she 
had driven with a loose rein, and tickled with a flower in- 
stead of flicking the whip. Never since the first moment 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


11 


of their association had she demanded, objected, reproached. 
Never once had she sulked, nor wept, nor encroached, nor 
resented. She had taken her own wa^^ largely, but she had 
been careful not to cross his, nor to make her will too evi- 
dent. She was only a shoe-maker’s daughter, but her in- 
tellect was as sharp and bright as a polished steel blade, 
and by mere force of that intellect she had herself in com- 
plete subjection. And here was her son spoiling his fortune 
and ruining his chances by a display of childish temper 
which would advance his interests no more than to kick 
over the board gives the victory at chess! 

In vain she remonstrated and reasoned with him, preaching 
ever on the one same text — to make the best of things as they 
were, seeing that they could not now be changed. In vain his 
father showed certain signs which should have warned him. 
Paston had his mother’s tenacity, but not her philosophy, 
which extracted the best possible result out of evil condi- 
tions. Moody, perplexed, ill at ease, and sore-hearted, the 
yoiiug fellow lost his only hold on his father when he ceased 
to amuse and began to annoy him; and kind-hearted and 
indolent though he was, Maurice was too self-indulgent to 
bear ^ith contradiction. He liked peace, his ease, and 
that 4hose about him should be compliant rather than sub- 
missive. He did. not want to be either the master or the 
subjugator. He wished every one to be happy, but to be 
happy according to Ms way. He disliked having to coerce 
a rebellious will or to chastise an offending spirit. He 
equally disliked responsibility and argument. He wanted 
his men. and women to be as much like fat, sleek, cherished 
dogs as was possible; and when they refused to come to 
heel, he preferred to have them shot or sent away rather 
than to beat or even rate them. 

Hence, when this youngest member of his human kennel 
left off the winsome ways of boyhood and put on the aggres- 
sive airs of an uncomfortable youth, his doom w^as sealed, 
and Maurice suddenly decided, once for all, that Clinton 
Hall should know the lad no more. 

“You must send your son away, Patty,” he said one 
day to his housekeeper, after Paston had been specially 
aggravating:. “ He does not know his place here. He 
must learn it elsewhere.” 

“ Yes,” said Patty, quietly; “ it is time he left home.” 

This was all that was said. There were no tears and no 


12 


PASTON CAKEW, 


'remonstrances. Patty knew the exact measure of her 
tether, and did not strain it by so much as the pull of a 
liumming-bird; did not notice the coldness embodied in 
the pronoun “ your son — not mine/'’ nor ours/^ did 
not seek to justify the lad, whose discomfort had, however, 
somewhat of a solid groundwork laid down by themselves; 
did nothing whatever but acquiesce with quietness and 
seeming content — and then waited patiently for such 
arrangements as her master should think fit to make. She 
knew him, and could trust to his generosity, this costing 
him less trouble than would have done the calculations of 
meanness. 

She was so far justified. Maurice proposed to give his 
son a sufficient sum of money with which he was to go out 
into the world, to sink or swim as chance and his personal 
abilities might determine. If he should sink, however, it 
would not be because the pecuniary life-belts with which 
he started were too small and weak for their ofiice. It 
would be merely because he had not the requisite abilUy. 
So the thing was arranged. Without the smallest display 
of emotion from any one concerned, the young fellow 
packed his portmanteau, pocketed his check, paid his last 
visit to the stables, the garden, the kennels, and the fields, 
shook hands with his father, kissed the cheek of his 
mother, bade the servants farewell, and started off in the 
dog-cart to the station — his back turned on Clinton Hall 
and, as he thought then, on Beaton Brows forever. 


CHAPTER II. 

IK THE SEKVICE OF JOHK COMPAKY. 

For all his dissatisfaction with things as they were, it 
was a hard trial to Paston when he had really-left the old 
home. Friendless and isolated as he was, how large and 
empty the world looked! He was not, as other young men, 
backed by a father^’s name and influence, and attached to 
society by the multitudinous threads of family associations 
and inherited friendships. He was No one — emphatically 
No one! What he would be in the future depended entire- 
ly on himself. Well, perhaps it were better so. Between 
maintaining the dignity and redeeming the shame of a 


MILLIOi^AIRE AND ]\JISI:R. 


13 


name, the former might be the easier, but the latter was 
tlie more honorable. This was what he had to do; and 
what he set himself to do. 

After the first stunning feeling of isolation and helpless- 
ness had passed. Fasten drew out the programme of his life 
aiid works. He would be his own creator; he would make 
his mark and amass a fortune. He, the son of the ancient 
house of Clinton, who might not bear his father's name, 
would make that of his dishonored mother famous. He 
would show them of what a man in his own right is capa- 
ble; and he would go far past the “ curled darlings " who 
owed everything to fortune and nothing to themselves. 
And some day he would return to Beaton Brows, wealthy, 
influential, prepotent, where now he was a nameless and 
unplaced bastard. The stakes were worth playing for, and 
Paston Carew had inherited the close grip of his grandfa- 
ther, old Joe, the village shoe-maker at Monkthwaite. If 
he had inhej’ited the velvet glove of his mother, Patty the 
housekeeper, his history would have been different. 

Strengthened by this resolve, and always gloomy, self- 
centered and unpleasant, after the young man left his fa- 
ther's house, where he was the son but not the heir, he 
virtually disappeared. He never returned — that, indeed, 
was in the arranged order of things; and he seldom wrote 
even to his mother, who did what she could to keep track 
of him without humiliating herself too much to her son or 
endangering her position with her master. When he did 
write he gave no detailed or satisfactory account of his do- 
ings. He always seemed to be resentful and distrustful; 
and he let his mother see that he hedged himself round 
against even her, assuredly his best friend, and the one 
2)repared to do all for him that was possible without trench- 
ing on the unsecured margins of her own position. 

Paston was but a short time in London, where, however, 
he learned more than the mere routine of business. He 
learned to divide the world into the two categories of the 
conquerors and the conquered — those who preyed and those 
who were preyed on; and he resolved that he would not 
come into the second division. He would be the first, let 
who might fall victim to his beak and claws, and he would 
have no mercy and show no ruth. When he had thoroughly 
learned this lesson he was offered a j)osition in India, in the 
service of John Company, under whose flag, as we know. 


14 PASTON CAEEW, 

tlie j)agoda-tree was worth shaking. Here he remained for 
many years, and, to all appearance, shook that tree to some 
purp'ose; for he never applied for money, as his father had 
more than half expected he would, and he was known to 
regard ten per cent, as a mere hiding of your talents in a 
napkin and burying them in the ground. 

At thirty years of age Paston married a charming girl — 
worlds too good for him, as she would have found to her 
sorrow had she lived long enough. She died just in time 
to save her happiness and preserve her illusions intact, 
leaving a little daughter, who now shared the heart which 
else would have been wholly given up to bitterness and 
avarice. The child became the one bright spot in her fa- 
therms dusky life — the one human element in his arid nature 
— and he loved her as he had never yet loved living thing. 
He loved her even more than he had loved her mother, and 
almost as much as his schemes of social vengeance at Bea- 
ton Brows, by the way of his personal aggrandizement and 
overwhelming riches. For her benefit he disbursed oven 
willingly, though never lavishly, the money he worshiped 
as other men worship God — guarded as carefully as other 
men guard their lives. 

His mind had followed the logical course. Ambition be- 
came avarice, and determination developed into unscrupu- 
lousness. “Paston Carew, the miser — that was the 
name by which he went in the district, where he oppressed 
the natives and piled up his rupees like grains of rice in a 
granaiy. His desire for money was as a thirst unappeasa- 
ble; and his dread of spending increased with his means of 
getting. He was as if drunk with the lust for gold. 
Dominated by this one passion, he lived only to indulge it; 
and nothing but his Httle dauglater stood between him and 
the ultimate degradation of his vice. All might go bare, 
but she must be well provided, and while he himself some- 
times suffered hunger to save a few annas, and his servants 
were kept just above the limits of starvation, he would send 
to the bazaar for toys and sweetmeats for the little maid, 
w^hose laughter was his sole delight and whose eyes were his 
only suns. 

As time passed, and the babe grew to be a child whose 
awakening intellect needed direction, he sent her to Eng- 
land under the care of a lady whose terms were moderate, 
side by side with her programme. And when she was gone^ 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 15 

naught then remained but increased cruelties, and more and 
more amassing of the wealth which was to give him his 
revenge, and make her a pearl of price among men. No 
creature between earth and sky was so rapacious as he. No 
fabled dragon enveloping in its scaly folds the young and 
fair, the wealthy and beloved, cared less for the lives that 
went to make him fat than did Paston Carew for those 
which went to make him rich. No mythic tyrant, pleasing 
himself with the groans and shrieks of tortured men, was 
ever soothed to such sweet humors by this litany of agony 
as was Paston Carew, thinking of the day^’s good business 
when he had wrung the last piece from a helpless victim or . 
squeezed the gorged money-bags of an oppressor only one 
degree less cruel than himself. It was the passion of a 
hunter, the feverish madness of a torturer, something wdiich 
neither reason nor humanity had power to check or to 
nontrol. 

At the old home time worked its accustomed changes. 
Indolent, self-indulgent Maurice Clinton died, as every 
one expected, of an apoplectic fit, due to the cook and wine- 
merchant conjointly. It was the certain consequence of his 
manner of life, and what had been foretold half a dozen 
times at the least. He died suddenly; and he died intestate. 
He had always intended to make a will, leaving a hand- 
some income to Patty for her life, and a good round sum 
to the boy, who, though unsatisfactory enough, was always 
his son. That was plainly his duty, and he would do it, as 
a gentleman should. He would be just and generous, but 
not lavish. He did not care to scrape the estate bare, to 
the prejudice of his cousin Humphrey — whom yet he had 
no cause specially to love — and of the boys whom Margaret 
French called her sons. He knew that the eldest bore her 
name — was French Clinton — in her honor; and he often 
thought within himself that he would like to see him just 
once, to kiss him as Jacob might have kissed the Benjamin 
who was RachePs but not his. 

He had not a trace of jealousy, revenge, nor of spite in 
his character. Indeed, he was too indolent, as well as too 
soft, for the darker passions; and it troubled him that his 
successful rival had been the life-long husband of Martha 
French, and the father of her son^ who would eventually 
be his own heir — no more than to know that he was* to 
profit by his death. Still, he wished that he had not come 


16 


PASTON CAEEW^ 


to Mock-Beggar; bufc the thing was done now, and there 
was no help for it. And, after all, it was but natural that 
Humphrey should wish to be near the land he was to in- 
herit: the land is so much to a man! Only those who in- 
herit from a long line, direct or collateral, understand what 
magic lies in the idea of possession! 

All the same he, Maurice, ought to take care of Patty 
and the boy. And he would some day. She had been a 
good and debonair kind of odalisque to him; and he must 
not leave her, like a second Nell G Wynne, to starve after 
he had gone. 

But he simply contributed so many cart-loads of good 
intentions to the infernal pavement below; for year by year 
passed, and the day and hour of consolidation never came. 
If Patty had not been wise in her generation — if she had 
not made her hay while the sun shone, and lined her nest 
wdiile feathers were flying abroad — on the death of her mas- 
ter she would have come to cruel ends. She would have- 
been turned adrift without a penny to call her own ; for 
outraged respectability has a heavy hand when it has fairly 
seized the whip, and those who have trodden on Mrs. 
Grundy^s toes must look out for kicks on their heels when 
the ranks '’bout face. But Patty Carew had calculated,^ 
and foreseen from the first day to the last, and when the 
end came, and she had to leave in unhonored haste and 
bitter scorn the house where for thirty fruitful years she 
had been supreme and all-powerful, she left with so many 
secret thousands well invested as secured her a luxurious 
maintenance for the remainder of her days. 

When she left she vanished into space, and Beaton Brows 
neither knew her retreat nor speculated on her fate. Cer- 
tainly odd rumors every now and then floated up like fantas- 
tic shapes of miasmatic clouds, now of her abounding pros- 
perity, now of her abject degradation. She had been met 
driving a luxurious equipage in the Park, and she had been 
seen by the door of a gin-shop. And each witness was as 
positive as the other, and as exact. No one discovered her 
in the middle-aged but still well-preserved wife of that 
young teacher of foreign tongues — that M. Richard who- 
had found her such a sympathetic companion in the lodg- 
ings where he starved in the garret and she lived knee-deep 
in clover in the drawing-room — that smart young advent- 


MILLIOKAIEE AKD MISEE. 17 

urer whose wits were his bank, whereof the dividends were 
neither regular nor bountiful. 

To him this still handsome fair-skinned matron, with her 
charming smile, evident fortune, and complaisant de- 
meanor, was a godsend not to be lightly regarded; while ta 
her — for the first time in her life the woman^s heart spoke 
loud and clear, and she gave it with all else she had to this 
smart young adventurer from Paris, whom she loved as she 
had never loved her master nor her son. 

No one at home knew this romantic ending to the vulgar 
prose of her life — ^this rash inconsiderateness after those 
long years of careful calculation. Even her son knew no 
more than the crude facts of his father^s death and in- 
testacy; his mother^s dispossession and retreat, so hastily 
beaten and so hurriedly executed; and now her subsequent 
marriage to a French nobleman, whose real title was M. le 
Viscount, but who, for certain political reasons, elected to 
be plain M. Richard. 

No one knew more of her than this, and no one regretted 
her save one — Jim Sherwood, the head game-keeper at 
Clinton Hall. Over him she had unwittingly cast her 
glamour from the first, and he had loved her with the 
obstinate tenacity of a man of few ideas and restricted mode 
of life, from the first day of her arrival at Clinton Hall to 
the last of her stay. He might as well have loved the 
moon — and he knew it. But when did hopelessness ever 
preach down desire or establish wisdom? To Jim Sherwood 
it was a shame on his own honest manhood that he should 
think twice of a woman of his own class openly kept by a 
gentleman — a folly to look to one in her falsely high and 
dishonorably luxurious position. Shame and folly notwith- 
standing, he did look and he did wish, and for the sake of 
Patty Oarew, his masters unwedded wife, kept himself 
single and his hearth desolate, hoping ever that the time 
might somehow come when, by the grace of those powers 
which alone can work miracles, she would turn to him for 
help, and his strong arm should shield her and his broad 
breast receive her. 

When Maurice died, and the housekeeper disappeared 
into space almost as if she had never been, the poor fellow 
took the thing so badly as to fall ill of fever — n? asking 
heartbreak. What availeth human sorrow? The dumb 
cry of his despair wrought no miracle in his behalf, and 


18 


PASTOK CAEEW, 

his anguish was as futile as all the rest had been. His 
strength gradually returned; he went back to his work; 
looked after his game; waged war against the vermin; 
broke the heads of the poachers — just as of old; and by 
degrees recovered the tenacious man^s belief in the good 
time to come, when Patty Oarew should turn to him for 
help — and he would give it. 

It will he used to say to himself. ‘‘ Afore I die, 
she^ll be Pa+ty and 1^11 be dear Jim. 

His father ^s intestacy, and his own consequent loss of 
the legacy he had looked on as certain, touched Paston 
Oarew as much as the loss of Patty, Mr. Olinton^s house- 
keeper, touched Jim Sherwood. Now more than ever he 
determined to return to Beaton Brows the richest man 
there. He owed it to himself to show the world how he 
had fared, helped by himself alone; to humiliate those who 
had formerly humiliated him; to lord it over a society which 
had rejected him from among them. And specially he 
owed it to himself to flout, annoy, and injure the new 
possessors of the old home which should have been his. 
Humphrey Clinton was, by all accounts, a man who would 
make ducks and drakes of the property: had he not already 
squandered everything he had? And this spendthrift pro- 
pensity would in all probability be perpetuated in the son. 
That young fellow French, as he remembered him, insolent 
and outspoken, was as likely as not to be one of those who 
let money fall from their hands as if it were water. In 
which case the day of difficulty would come, which would 
be his of opportunity — and reckoning. 

Paston thought of this till he became, as it were, possessed 
with two devils instead of one. If things could be brought 
to the point when the Clintons would have to break the 
entail and throw the estate into the market — if they could. 
Night after night he set himself to sleep with this thought 
as an infernal lullaby chanted by an unseen demon; and 
year by year he piled up his rupees like rice grains in a 
granary, feeling that each handful was so much added to 
the weight which was to turn the scale in his favor and make 
that of the Clintons’ fortune kick the beam. 

He would be, revenged. He gathered in his fortunes, 
concentrated his venom, strengthened his resolve, and 
allowed only his love for that fair-haired little girl to steal 
like sunshine through the poisonous night wherein his soul 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


19 


brooded like a ghoul among the graves of men. Then he 
at last drew breath and halted. Even he had to own that 
he had now enough, and that the time had come. The 
corn was in the ear and ripening fast, and his sickle was 
whetted for the shearing. He finished his afiairs here in 
India, made his last exaction, perpetrated his last cruelty, 
and then set sail for England and his future home at 
Beaton Brows — to be shared with the only human treasure 
he possessed, his fair-haired and dark-eyed daughter, just 
now entered on the nineteenth year of her young life — his 
pretty blossom, Yetta, whose birth had caused her moth- 
er's death. 


CHAPTER III. 

AT BEATON BROWS. 

“ Those poor Clintons! Really there seems to be a kind 
of curse on theni,^'’ said Mrs. Arrol, the aesthetic wife of 
the Philistine banker at Beaton Brows^ “ What a dread- 
ful thing to happen! I wonder if it was really done by 
accident, Hugh?'’^ 

“ Certainly by accident,^ ^ said her husband, stoutly. 

It was a pious falsehood — among the many he was in the 
habit of telling his wife, one of the most fiuent talkers in 
the place. 

“But is it possible to take so much chloral by acci- 
dent? she returned. “ It is such horrible stuff at the 
best; who would take enough to kill, except intentionally?^^ 

“Why should an old man, close on eighty, kill himself, 
Elsie? He might leave that to time and nature, I should 
think. His sands must be pretty well run out as things 
are; he need not give himself the trouble to shake the 
glass. 

“ As for that, every one knows that Colonel Clinton was 
up to his eyes in debt. Besides, he has never been the same 
since his wife died. I am sure it was no accident, Hugh. 

“ My dear, how remarkably fond you are of mysteries 
and mares^-nests!^'’ said her husband. 

“ Not so fond as you are of pretending that everything is 
right, no matter how evidently it is wrong, she retorted, 
but without acrimony. “I feel as sure as of my own ex- 
istence that Colonel Chnton took that chloral on purpose; 


20 


PASTOK CAKEW, 


and, as I say, the family does seem to have been under a 
kind of curse ever since that awful Maurice lived such a 
wicked life/^ 

“ As for the curse, I do not see many signs of it,^’ said 
Mr. Arroll, sipping liis after-dinner claret with the gusto of 
a connoisseur. “ Humphrey Clinton married without a 
rap besides his pay; inherited largely from his father-in- 
law; spent every shilling of his fortune; and was at his 
wits^ end for money, when Maurice conveniently died with- 
out a will, and he came in for all. He enjoyed his estate 
for full twenty years, and was not far from eighty when he 
slipped off the hooks without an ache or a pain, and with- 
out the bother of a long illness. I see no sign of a curse 
there, little woman. 

“ Not in the sudden death of that awful old Maurice — 
he died of apoplexy, did he not? — and now in this suicide 
of the colonel? What a heathen you are, Hugh! Think 
where they have both gone. And then look at the debts. 
I have heard twenty times that the estate ow^es quite a fort- 
une to the bank.^^ * 

‘‘ Not from me, my dear,^^ interrupted her husband, 
hastily. ‘‘ For Heaven^s sake, do not say that I told you!’^ 

“ You? No, indeed! I should never hear anjThing if I 
trusted to you to tell me,^^ she answ^ered, with a little 
laugh. “ But he did borrow, and you know it; and how 
will Mr. French Clinton manage, with such a family of 
girls as he has to find husbands for, and those two young 
men, Maurice and Lanfrey, knocking about the place and 
spending like two young, princes? Idle young wretches! 
They do nothing but hunt and shoot and fish, as if they 
were savages getting food for their tribe. ^ ^ 

“Whose travels have you been reading, Elsie ?^^ asked 
her husband, who knew her. “ And what would you have 
the young fellows to do other than they have done? Mau- 
rice is in the army, and Lanfrey is at the bar; and when 
they come home for their holidays, may they not have the 
amusements of their age and station? Would you like 
them to sit at home and wind silks for their sisters, or pass 
their time in rubbing their noses over old stones, like your 
friend Fitz-George Standish?^^ 

“ They are always at home; and do not laugh at what 
you do not understand,^ ^ said Mrs. Arrol, tip-tilting her 
blunt, kid -shaped nose. “ Those Clinton boys are just 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


21 


horrid! They have no sense of obedience, of discipline, 
such as young men ought to have. They are dreadful — 
mere good-for-nothing mashers!^’ 

My dear, are you consecrated to the task of setting the 
world to rights?^'’ asked her husband, good-naturedly. “ If 
so, you have your work cut out for you.'’^ 

‘‘I can not set my own husband to rights, so I am not 
likely to do much good to others,-’^ she returned, also good- 
naturedly; for their sparrings were never serious, and 
always made with the gloves on. At all events, I hold 
to what I said — poor old Colonel Clinton never took all 
that chloral by accident, and the family has done badl)'^ 
ever since that monster Maurice^s time. How should it 
not? Are we not told that the sins of the fathers are visit- 
ed on the children? It would be flat impiety to doubt it, 
Hugh; and what would Mr. Harcourt say to you?'’^ 

“ Scissors,^ ^ said Hugh Arrol, making the sign with his 
two fingers. “ Make your charge and stick to it — that is 
the way you women argue. In the first place, the colonel 
was the cousin, not the son, of the monster, as you call 
him, and I maintain that he did not suffer, but quite the 
contrary. He enjoyed to the last, and had a very respecta- 
ble innings indeed. Poor French, if you will — with five 
girls to fi^nd husbands for, as you say, and not a beauty 
among them to take the lead and make a matrimonial nest- 
egg for the rest — he has a few unboiled peas in his shoes. 
Put I do not see the logic of saddling him with the conse- 
quences of his far-away cousin^ s misdeeds. 

‘‘His daughters are better than his sons,^'’ put in his 
wife. “ Their want of beauty is their misfortune, not 
their fault; but their brothers — 

“ Well, Maurice is a little objectionable, I admit, with 
his swagger and finery, and almost insane family pride. 
Yet even he may improve and tone down in time. As for 
Lanfrey, he is a young fellow any one might be proud to 
call his son. I should be glad enough to be the father of 
such a lad, I assure you, little woman. 

“ He is the youngest brother, and is of no account in the 
family history,^'’ said Mrs. Arrol, after a pause, determined 
not to be convinced on the subject of the Clintons, as on 
some other things on which she had made up her mind. 
After a few moments’ sileDce, her husband said, quietly. 


22 PASTON CAREW, 

By the way, who do you think has bought Mock-Beggar, 
Elsie?’’ 

Mlio?” she asked, with animation. 

A piece of news was meat and drink to Elsie Arrol, 
and she would rather have had the first handseling of , a 
new event than a gold bracelet or a velvet gown. 

That man you have often heard of, and whose skirts 
you have just now been brushing past — Paston Oarew, the 
son of old Maurice and his famous housekeeper. ” 

“ Hugh!” gasped Elsie. 

“ Yes, my dear — what?” 

‘‘ Impossible!” she said, as if overwhelmed. 

‘‘It may be impossible; all the same it is,” was his 
calm reply. “ He has bought Mock-Beggar from Griffiths 
—French Clinton, you know, only rented it, like his father 
before him. The purchase-money is lodged in the bank, 
and there would have been a pretty mess if the poor old 
man had not so conveniently died; for Mr. Carew does not 
seem disposed to be very accommodating. He is. a tough 
customer all round. ’Pon my life, the fight he made over 
quite trifling details was what I have never witnessed be- 
, fore. ’ ’ 

‘‘ But what are we to do? We can not visit him, and 
Mock-Beggar is such a beautiful place, for all its horrid 
name — quite the best house in the neighborhood after Clin- 
ton Hall. What are we to do, Hugh?’ ’ 

Mrs. Arroll’s pretty little round pink face was puckered 
with dismay. 

“ Who says we can not visit him?” her husband asked. 

“ How can we?” she answered. 

“ Why not? I see no reason, fair lady.” 

“ Hugh! a man who is illegitimate!” 

“ May I ask what on earth we have to do with that?’^ 
said her husband, in his most Pliilistine matter-of-fact 
manner, “ What does it signify to us whether he was born 
on the wrong sicjp of the blanket or the right? The man 
himself is what we have to do with. And he is well enough 
— -neither better nor worse than others. Besides, he has 
brought home enough money, by all accounts, to pay off 
the national debt if he chose. And money is the king of 
the world now, my dear. Not knowledge but money is 
the supreme power every whei*e nowadays— especially in 
^England.” 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 23 

“ Morels the pity/^ said Elsie Arrol, in her character of 
aesthete and philomediaevalist. 

‘‘ But being so, we must make the best of it,^^ returned 
her husband. “ Therefore I shall ask him to dinner next 
week; and we will have the Harcourts and Ellacombes to 
meet him.^^ 

‘‘ I do not think it quite friendly to make a dinner-party 
when such an awful thing has happened in the neighbor- 
hood,^^ said Mrs. Arrol, mildly remonstrating. 

Inwardly she was glad of the diversion. A new member 
of their well-known society was a godsend no one appre- 
ciated more than she. 

Oh, the funeraT will be over by then,” returned her 
husband, cheerfully. The Clintons can not surely ex- 
pect us to go into mourning and a month^s seclusion. 
And the sooner Mr. Carew is introduced among us, the 
sooner we shall learn of what stuff he is made. ' ^ 

It can not be good stuff, said Mrs. Arrol, with deci- 
sion. The son of such parents, how can he help being 
bad? lie must be detestable. But of course, as you say, 
if he has come to live among us, we must know him. We 
can not afford to give up Mock-Beggar, whoever may hold 
it.^^ 

“ My dear, I have always said that, aic fond, you are one 
of the most reasonable little women one would wish to see. 
Give you time, and you are sure to come to a Just deci- 
sion. 

‘‘ Which means that I am a good wife, and let you have 
your own way,^’ said Elsie Arrol, with that pretended air 
of martyrdom put on by certain caressed wives. 

Of itself a proof of consummate wisdom in a woman, 
her husband answered. ‘‘ By the bye, I forgot to tell you 
that Mr. Carew has a daughter, so that you must arrange 
for two at your table,” he added, gallantly holding the dOor 
for his wife to pass through. 

‘‘ Another girl,” said Mrs. Arroll, tossing up her frizzled 
head, and shrugging her nice little round shoulders, the 
droop of which even her high sleeves would not conceal. 
‘‘As if we had. not enough here already. We are overrun 

But as we can not burke this new addition, 
we must adopt and make the best of her,” said Mr. Arrol, 


by girls. 

“ Granted. 


PASTOiq- CAREW, 


24c 

with a rather, peculiar smile, as he went back to his claret 
and cigar. 

Moist-lipped and pleasure-loving, his roving eyes, with 
their heavy lids and softened stare accusing his sensuous 
temperament, handsome in person, well-bred in manner, 
his morals of no tougher texture than the tissue-paper hoop 
through which the circus-rider leaps — Hugh Arrol was 
emphatically the modern epicurean, and carpe diem^^ 
was the motto by which he ordered his days. He had no 
higher ambition than to enjoy. He did not wish to be 
great nor famous, nor yet supremely wealthy — that is, not 
so wealthy as to include duties and responsibilities necessi- 
tating some amount of self-sacrifice. He thought he could 
dispose of about ten or fifteen thousand a year on his pleas- 
ures, and he considered his estimate moderate. 

Meanwhile he neither stinted himself in his expenditure 
for lack of a margin nor lost his strength in discontent that 
he had not more. He had a pretty little wife, whose folhes 
diverted him, and whose beauty had not yet lost its charm ; 
he had a nice house, where he entertained as a gentleman 
should, and gave the best wine in the neighborhood; and 
he had the most marvelous faculty of enjoyment ever jws- 
sessed by man. His vanity was fiattered by knowing mor6 
of his neighbors^ affairs than any one else; and his admira- 
tion for his own wife did not prevent his appreciation of 
the wives of other men, whom, however, he took care never 
to compromise in the eyes of the world. He had learned 
the eleventh commandment to the echo, and was the safest 
confidant to be found within the four seas. Ho woman 
could reproach him for any stain cast on the ermine of her 
repute; no man could fasten on him the accusation of 
treachery in private life or official. He never forgot to 
lock the door, and he always held his tongue. AV^hen he 
wanted to keep a secret, he kept it rigidly, and neither 
whispered it to the reeds with the servant of the Phrygian 
king, now drew its outline in the clouds with the Father of 
the Gods. Within these limits of silence and secrecy he 
contended that a man^s life was his own, and what he chose 
to do in the dark touched no one but himself. Hot the 
fact, but men’s knowledge of the fact, was the all-impor- 
tant matter to him, and he said so frankly enough. 

In politics he was, according to his own account, a mod- 
erate Liberal, or sometimes a Liberal Conservative; that is. 


MILLIONAIHE AKD MISER. 


25 


lie distrusted the people as much as the aristocracy, and 
ridiculed the fossilization of Toryism equally with the 
fluidity of Radicalism. 

‘‘ Arcades ambo,” he used to say, with his serene smile; 
and when a hot partisan talked to him of principles, he an- 
swered back, still smiling: You mean the loaves and 
fishes, my dear sir. These are the only principles which 
govern the world of politics. ” 

In religious practice he was a conforming Churchman, 
who went to church as a compliment to the rector and a 
concession to respectability; but speculatively he was 
neither a believing Christian nor a reverent Agnostic. He 
w^as simply a scoffer who made fun of the whole thing all 
round. 

Pleasant in temper, in person, in manner, he was liked 
by all and respected by none. As a host and entertainer, 
he was the prince of good fellows; as a banker, he was 
Ehadamanthus on the matter of loans; as a trustee, the 
dividends were punctual and the securities invisible; as a 
' companion, no one came near him in charm. He was 
known to have done many kind things to unprotected 
women of the better sort; and there were certain ladies of 
repute in Beaton Brows who vaunted him as the best man 
in the place. This did not prevent many others from hold- 
ing him capable of breaking every commandment in the 
Decalogue— beginning with the surreptitious dealing with 
those securities which, once lodged in his hands, were as 
difficult to draw Out as so many sand-eels — the unlawful 
handling of more kinds of property than one — and ending 
with who knows what? But he was a power in the place, 
and one with whom all tried to stand well. 

His wife was one of the women whom nature had formed 
for simplicity, and education has warped to folly. She was 
meant to be a good, affectionate, domestic little hen, cack- 
ling pleasantly over her eggs, and straying with her young 
brood through flowery meadows and by the sedgy water- 
side. She was never designed to be more nor other than a 
complacent wife and a careful, long-suffering mother. But 
the curse of culture falls at times on women, as it might be 
small-pox and rose-rash, and the harmony of their nature 
iS' destroyed like the smooth skin and the clear tint. They ; 
/go in for something they are not and can never be. ) 
^Pragile, anaemic, and barely escaping the sick-couch for 


26 


PASTON' CAKEW, 


their own parts, they rush off to become hospital nurses or 
missionaries’ wives. Incapable of looking ahead or of fore- 
casting the events of to-morrow from the facts of to-day, 
they dash out on to platforms and toss up grave political 
questions like jugglers’ balls in the air. Ignorant of gram- 
mar, and with a literary faculty which is to composition 
what a basketful of thrums and ends and jags is to sei-Vice- 
able rope, they neglect their families, let the children’s 
stockings go in holes, and spend both time and money in 
chasing the phantom of literary fame. Or— formed by 
nature to be good gross honnes femmes, or smart little soxf^- 
brettes, or happily plump and appetizing Cicelies carrying 
the milking-pail to the dairy — they pose as so many Ladies 
of Shalott, and sigh for Lancelot to sing “ tirra lirra ” by 
the river. 

This was what our friend Elsie Arrol did, and mediaeval- 
ism was the target at which she aimed her foolish arrow. 
She was aesthetic. It did not touch her sense of fitness 
that personally she was the most completely commonplace 
of all women; that, dress as she would, she never went be- 
yond the suggestion of Cicely the dairy-maid, appetizing, 
plump, pink, materialistic, and no more after her own 
poetic ideal than a fat little robin is like a bird of Paradise. 
The mind, according to her own phrase, informed the body. 
Hence she tousled her hair, clothed herself in mediasval pat- 
terns of strange device and washed-out colors, put herself 
into artistic attitudes, talked artistic nonsense, where she 
floundered far beyond her depth, and let the jeers of the 
base Philistine world fall unheeded on her small pink shell- 
shaped ears. She was like those whose eyes have been 
touched with fairy ointment — gifted with the power of see- 
ing what to others was invisible; and when those base 
Philistines laughed, she, in her turn, despised them for 
their ignorance, as an Esquimaux might despise an African 
who denied that the water could ever become solid and 
hard as stone. 

Most women being but the echoes of men, Elsie Arrol 
had her fugleman — and this was not her epicurean hus- 
band. He was Eitz-George Standish, of Five Oaks — her 
teacher and her knight in one. 

Personally Mr. Standish was more fitted for the part he 
had marked out for liimself than was Elsie Arrol for hers. 
Tall to weediness, and slender to tenuity, his bearing and 


MILLIOi^AIRE AND MISER. 


27 


appearance were harmonious with a mind which had no 
grip on the material things of life. He had so saturated 
his intellect with retrospective regrets as to leave himself 
only the passions of a dreamer. This responsible nine- 
teenth century landed proprietor was no more solid flesh 
and blood than the fisherman^s jinn. He was a living 
phantasm projected on the dust of the past; a breathing 
bit of Byzantine mosaic. Of the conduct of his estate, the 
meaning of the terms of his leases, the happiness and well- 
being or misery and distress of his tenants, he knew noth- 
ing, and cared no more than he knew. His whole energies 
of interest went to this inscription on an early Christian 
tomb, that newly discovered fresco in the Catacombs, the 
date of such and such a fragment of oxidized glass found 
among the bones of the second century; and all discussions 
on drains or soils, sewage .farms or the rotation of crops, 
were neither understood nor welcome. 

To be sure, when he first came into possession of Five 
Oaks, he sought to do hrs duty, as he interpreted it. That 
is, he tried to get up a May-pole and May-day sports of Old 
"World flavor, to institute the quintain, abolish cricket, 
bring back the miracle plays, and shut up the village club 
which the men had formed among themselves at W ayfield, 
the village situated on his property whereof he was lord of 
the manor, and wished to be irresponsible suzerain. When 
the neighboring squires laughed at him, and some profane 
wag at Beaton Brows put forth a caricature heading a 
leaflet of doggerel, when his tenants resisted and the Vicar 
of Wayfield . remonstrated, he gave up the attempt to lead 
the people back to truth and beauty, and let the whole con- 
cern go headlong_,to the nineteenth century demon of un- 
righteousness an(f ugliness. Henceforth he devoted him- 
self to the worship of the past, and let the present alone. 
His estate was the worst managed of any in the neighbor- 
hood. His rents were the lowest, and his farms the most 
unproductive; his cottages were in the worst repair, and 
his fields grew more weeds that worts. His neighbors on 
either side, who farmed high and kept their own land 
clean, complained loudly of the damage done by his thistles 
and dandelions; the winged seeds of which the wind car- 
ried and scattered broadcast. But Fitz-George Stand ish 
was asleep in his fooFs paradise of the archaic past, and 
the echoes of the present did not awaken him. 


28 


PASTOi^ CAREW, 


What were a few weeds more and a few bushels of wheat 
less in comparison with the date when Christians first began 
to honor the Virgin Mother with peculiar reverence? when 
Ichthus was first adopted as a sign and. initialized mono- 
gram? when the lachrymatory was abolished? when the 
emblems were finally settled? These things were the vital 
matters of human life to Fitz-George Standish, not the 
clean cultivation of the land and the raising of good grain. 

The only person who sympathized with him was Elsie 
Arrob and she “carried him on/’ she said. Where he 
stopped she began, and thus together they kept the chain 
unbroken. They were close friends in their queer, unreal 
way — a way which made Beaton Brows .politely sneer be- 
hind its well-gloved hand; but it did not make Mr. Arroll 
Jealous. On the contrary, he encouraged this bit of platonic 
pretense — this artificial “knighthood” and “My Lady- 
dom,” this modern version of Petrarch and Laura. It 
kept his wife amused, touched none of his own rights, and 
secured both blindness and tolerance, when he looked too 
keenly to the right or tarried too long to the left. He 
laughed at it; but then Hugh Arrol laughed at everything 
that was not absolute modern life, and his wife had sense 
enough to know that she was well out of it for a few good- 
natured sarcasms which neither stung nor hindered. Hus- 
bands can be so disagreeable when they like! — and it is not 
every man, though with moist lips and roving eyes for his 
own share, who will allow his wife to have even such an 
unreal “ interest ” as this phantasmal bit of platonism, 
which made her feel innocently naughty and imaginatively 
mismated. It gave Just that flavor of romance to her life, 
without which young women who have nothing to com- 
plain of, feel neglected by fortune and ill-treated by fate. 
It saved her from active discontent; and, by making her 
see herself as a creature all soul united to a man all body, 
while dumbly worshiped by a knight who would never tell 
his love and never lose it, it pleased her vanity, roused her 
imagination, and was the boracic acid which kept all sweet. 
It was affectation from first to last; wherein these humble 
disciples but followed the masters of their sect; and being 
Just this affectation, with no reality and no grip, it was 
free from all dangerous elements, and would never gener- 
ate a destructive fire. 


MILLIONAIEE AJ^D MISER. 


^9 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE NEW-COMERS. 

The dinner proposed by Mr. Arrol took place in its 
course, and what was substantially the special jury im- 
paneled to pronounce on the quality of these new members 
of their society, assembled as they were bidden. The spe- 
cial jury was composed of the Honorable and Reverend 
Mr. Harcourt,, the rector of the parish and rural dean of 
the district; his wife Cecilia, one of those otherwise-minded 
folk who scarcely assent without reservation to the proposi- 
tion that two and two make four; Mr. and Mrs. Ellacombe, 
of the Knoll; Mr. Fitz-George Standish, of Five Oaks; and 
Mrs. Gaysworthy, of Laburnam jjodge — ^her daughter Oc- 
tavia being absent. This was the best that could be done 
in the present circumstances — Clinton Hall being in mourn- 
ing, and Lord Masdew on the Continent. 

By accident or design Paston Carew came in just that 
five minutes late which insures the arrival of all the other 
guests and makes the last comer the most important. 
Hence his entrance was doubly accentuated, and curiosit}^ 
hitherto on tiptoe, had wherewith to satisfy its desires. A 
kind of hush went round the room as the two entered, and 
all eyes turned to see what they were like. 

A slightly built man of middle, age, a little bent as if 
with constant searching; his nose high, razor-edged, and 
prominent; his thin lips compressed; his deep-set eyes keen, 
hungry, bright, and cruel; an air of command underlying 
his studiously quiet and reserved demeanor; a man of dis- 
tinguished, not to say aristocratic, bearing — that was Pas- 
ton Carew — a Clinton with the bar-sinister across the shield 
— the housekeeper^’s son, and the father of sweet Yetta. 

Evidently by his looks he has learned to be a gentle- 
man, thought the jury as one man. “Our sensibilities 
will not be wounded by obtrusive suggestions of the house- 
keeper.^^ 

And the girl — what of her? to which side of the house 
did she belong? — to the blue blood of the Clintons or the 
muddy stream of the Carews? 

Apparently to neither. Not a Clinton, nor yet a Carew, 


30 


PASTOH" CAKEW, 


she 'vas sui generis, and supreme. This all had to ac- 
knowledge. Who, indeed, could deny the glory of this 
beautiful young creature who now flashed into the social 
firmament of Beaton Brows like a star of the first magni- 
tude suddenly risen in its splendor? In form and color 
alike, where was the blot? Certainly some might have said 
she was too tall — for five feet seven is above the average 
height for a woman; but she was so perfectly proportioned 
that her extra inches were not aggressive, and, indeed, had 
the effect of making others look too short, not herself too 
tall. Graceful and harmonious, in some subtle way she 
suggested melody and music — the tender fragrance of flow- 
ers — the secret pathos of prayer. There was nothing com- 
manding about her, nothing voluptuous, nor yet exuber- 
antly mirthful. She had just that delicate touch of sad- 
ness which belongs to the sympathetic by nature and is the 
accompaniment of earnestness — the sadness which one sees 
in the faces of Botticelli ^s angels, and which has not a trace 
of discontent nor of selfish repining in its divine regret. Yet 
she smiled easily, and had the clear eyes and transparent 
skin of health and youth combined; and so far was free 
from hysterical fancies and morbid imaginings. 

In color she possessed the wonderful charm given by 
mixed tints. She had hair of the true Venetian ruddy 
gold, with dark blue eyes, dark eyebrows, and long dark 
eyelashes. Thus she had by the grace of nature that starry 
look which kohl and antimony imitate so ill. Her skin was 
of that healthy pallor which so often goes with auburn hair; 
and her lips were neither scarlet to suggest vice, nor color- 
less to express cruelty. Mrs. Arrol said they were unmean- 
ing, and argued want of character; but Mrs. Harcourt, 
looking down demurely, said, in her well-known way. 

Better that, my dear, than the paint-pot. 

In Yetta^s bearing nothing was to be remarked save the 
rhythmic kind of grace already spoken of, and a rather rare 
amount of courteousness. It was not affectionateness nor 
impulsiveness, nor yet enthusiasm; it was just courteousness, 
springing from thought for others and want of thought for 
herself-T-the root and rock-work of good-breeding. Had 
she been a young queen to command, or a waiting- maid to 
obey, her manner would have been very much what it was 
now — considerate for the one, giving thought in excess of 
duty for the other. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


31 


Only eighteen as she was, her mental personality was not 
strongly pronounced^ and her moral power was latent rather 
than active. She was a little afraid of men, and more re- 
pelled by their attention than attracted by their admira- 
tion. She had never had the faintest shadow of a lover, 
and she had not dreamed of the reality. She thought mar- 
riage a rather dreadful kind of thing for any one, and 
hoped, for her own part, never to have to exchange her fa- 
ther for a husband. Had she not had this father, with 
whom it was not only her duty, but her happiness, to stay, 
she would have liked to take vague service in some great 
unclassified establishment of humane and philanthropic 
work. She thought the rich ought to help the poor, and 
Christians reproduce Christas kingdom in fact as well as in 
faith. Also she thought that everywhere in nature were 
peace, serenity, beauty, love, with the exception of man 
doomed to sin and sorrow through the Fall. Deeper than 
this her philosophy did not go — further than tliis her spir- 
itual vision did not range. She accepted life as it presented 
itself to her, and did not look for causes. Those who did 
she thought irreligious and overbold, believing in the curse 
still lying at the root of the Tree of Knowledge. In a 
word, she was an innocent, pure-hearted, religious-minded 
girl, who earnestly and sincerely tried to live up to the best 
she knew, and not to offend God nor man, nor yet her own 
conscience, by disloyalty to the truth, nor by divagations 
from the right. All the same, she was essentially unformed 
and undeveloped, and her character was still to make. 

Such as she was, she was voted an acquisition by the As- 
sessors; and an acquisition is always welcome to people in 
a somewhat restricted society, who have grown a little tired 
of one another. No one found fault with her — save that 
Elsie ArrOl said the color of her mouth was unmeaning, 
and Mrs. Harcourt, who was dumpy, said she was prepos- 
terously tall. But when it cartie to her father, opinions 
were chopped up into mince-meat, for no one knev/ what to 
make of him, and every one read him differently. The 
women, however, all agreed in one thing — they did not like 
him. It was Dr. Fell over again, with no better reason for 
this consensus of repugnance than Martial had when he re- 
pudiated Sabidius. 

Yet why? 

A quiet-mannered, well-bred man who spoke little. 


d2 


PASTOIf CAREW, 


watched much, gave no decided opinions, refused to be 
drawn on politics, religion, the causes of the mutiny, the 
Ilbert bill, or the government of India, and who seemed 
mainly careful not to oJB^end other people '’s^prejudices — 
whahwas there to warrant the dislike? Why did pretty lit- 
tle Mrs. Arrol say he made her blood run the wrong way? 
> — why did Mrs. Harcourt question his orthodoxy?— and 
Mrs. Gaysworthy wish for some reliable information as to 
the kind of life he had led in India? — and what made Mrs. 
Ellacombe, the sweetest-natured woman in the worlds 
reluctantly confess that she had not taken to him? And 
for Mrs. Ellacombe to say this was as much as if any one 
else had condemned him — notorious as she was for no^ 
speaking evil of her neighbors, and for not suffering eithk 
scandal or gossip to steal through the doors of the 
Knoll. 

The men were as diverse in their opinions, but more 
genial in their judgments, as became their sex. Mr. Arrol 
wondered what magnetic quality this new-comer could pos- 
sess to make his wife’s blood run the wrong way — an in- 
convenient method of circulation, by the bye — and for his 
own part found him a well-mannered and agreeable gentle- 
man, and no worse than any one else. But as Mr. Arrol 
was known to be guilty of that kind of moral latitudina- 
rianism which makes vice of little more importance than 
virtue, and jumbles together all the defects and qualities 
of humanity like so many beans in a bag — good or bad not 
much signifying, both being so much alike as not to leave 
a pin to choose between them — his advocacy did not count 
for Mr. Oarew and did tell against himself. 

On his side Mr. Harcourt first rebuked his wife for her 
theological uncharity, then assumed that, as Mr. Carew had 
lived so long among idolaters, he had probably imbibed 
some of-their ideas, which were not ours. Also he had a 
word to say about men tvho make haste to become rich, 
which was seasonable and to the point. But as soon as he 
had shot this bolt, he disclaimed all personal application 
to the new-comer, and softened it into a generalized refiec- 
tion which touched no one. He agreed with Mr. Arrol — 
they knew too little to judge; and Mr. Carew was certainly 
both well-mannered and agreeable. And then he said, with 
the sly smile of a learned abbe: 

‘‘ By his looks I should say fmmim liahet in cornu,’ ^ 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


03 


M^hich the women did not understand, though the men 
laughed. 

Fitz-George Standish thought him Mephistophelian, and 
felt sure that he was a rank Philistine; and Mr. Ellacombe 
was afraid of his wealth, and hoped he would not set a bad 
example of ostentation to the neighborhood; whereat the 
rector said again, with the soft smile of a learned abbe: 

“ Agur’s prayer, neither poverty nor riches — the aurea 
mediocritas of Horace, and not the miri sacra fames of 
Virgil — eh, Ellacombe? Well, let us hope so; biit Mock- 
Beggar can not be kept up on a modest competency, and 
our new-comer may find that miser a est magni custodia 
')i.e)isus, and wish for his handful of rice in a bungalow be- 
fore all is done.^’ 

The rector was fond of these trite quotations, being a 
scholar in his own way,but wanting in breadth and flexibility. 
A good classic, and a profound student of Church history, 
he neither went with modern thought nor understood its 
line of march. He knew a good deal about the Masoretic 
points, and his Greek would have satisfied Person and es- 
caped the horns of Bentley’s Bull, but he was as ignorant 
of science as any French commis-voyageur, and when he 
preached against geological periods and evolution, he talked 
such solemn nonsense as would have made the fortune of a 
humorist had it been put in the form of jokes instead of 
arguments. 

He was a round, rosy, apple-faced little man, with a 
double chin and a strong lisp; pompous and dictatorial 
enough in his office, hut as a citizen he held the balance 
even, and always remembered that his sheep were gentle- 
men and ladies whom his crook must not pindi. Convinced 
that by his ordination he had a spiritual power extra to any 
possessed by the laity or the irregular ministry, he put off 
that power with his surplice, and when he was drinking a 
man’s wine was his guest and not his pastor. If he laid 
down the law a little too authoritatively, that was in his 
quality of scholar, not priest, and he would have yielded 
tne palm to any one who should have convinced him that 
his rendering of a passage in Euripides was wrong, or his 
interpretation of a verse in Isaiah defective. To be sure, 
that person did not exist, for he would have argued the 
point with both poet and prophet had he met them in 
Hades and they had disputed his reading. 

2 


34 


PASTON CAEEW, 

The man to whom Mr. Harcourt had specially addressed 
his Latinity, Grant Ellacombe of the Knoll, was very un- 
like both the rector and the banker. Thoughtful, melan- 
choly, ascetic, he was one for whom life had few pleasures 
and love itself no solace. His wife, who adored him, was 
the only woman he had ever loved; but even she gave him 
no happiness. That she must die and pass into the noth- 
ingness of the grave seemed to vitiate all the reality of the 
present, and to reduce his holding to a mere dream. He 
was as if oppressed by the thought of death — weighed down 
by the miseries of life and the limitations of humanity* 
That man should be born helpless and die decayed, carry- 
ing his experiences with him, that nature meant the end- 
less strife of all created things, and that general perfection 
was gained only through individual pain, were omnipresent 
thoughts which tinged the whole landscape with tears and 
blood. He saw the hidden strife and struggle wherever he 
looked, and the pity which filled his heart was but another 
name for horror. Also, studious though he was, he had 
the profound conviction that knowledge would lead to dis- 
appointment, and the discovery of causes to disenchantment. 

“ If we knew all, we should find out that w'e ourselves 
create what we see,^^ he used to say to those who, more en- 
thusiastic, more imaginative than himself, dwelt on the 
wonders and beauties of the objective universe. ^ Nothing 
is, but all things seem, and without our brain to receive, 
transmute, and register, there would be only darkness and 
silence. Those colors do not exist in themselves; it is we 
who see the different lengths of the ether-waves as colors, 
just as var5dng vibrations form themselves to melody be- 
cause our brain so wills it. The prohibition was right. 
Knowledge but reveals nakedness. 

He was like one of those Scotch seers who see the wind- 
ing-sheet about the bride, and know that the grave lies 
open before the strong man proud of his might. Sorrow 
and emptiness were everywhere to him. The day was but 
the alternative of night, and joy had its avenger in satiety. 
Yet he was eminently a good citizen, and if his pessimism 
made him but a gloomy companion, it did not hinder him 
from being a man whom all respected, though no one cared 
to make him a close companion. 

Had it not been for his wife. Grant Ellacombe would 
have been even more isolated than he was already. But 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 35 

she was one of those women who attract love because they 
radiate sympathy. She had the sweetest nature to be found 
between dawn and dusk. She was like some divine mother 
of the world, patient and tender to all alike. The vices 
which offended her husband^ s sensitive morality created in 
her a maternal kind of compassion, as for a sick creature 
needing to be carried back to health. The universal suffer- 
ing which paralyzed his^ energies and landed him in pessim- 
ism roused her to lessen tvhat she could not remove. The 
knowledge which was to him but another name for disen- 
chantment delighted her as the stepping-stone to ultimate 
Truth. Where he saw only Necessity, she looked up to 
Hope; and what made him despair, gave her additional 
courage. 

In person she was fair, soft, and stout; while her hus- 
band was as lean as a red Indian after a dearth, and almost 
as brown as a mummy. Her hair was silvery white and 
her waist had lost its girlish trimness; but no one could call 
her other than beautiful, past fifty as she was. She was 
the center of all the good works and helpful institutions at 
Beaton Brows; but she did not pauperize the people, and 
she did not sacrifice good sense for charity. 

The little school-master, whom she had nursed through 
rheumatic fever in her own house, the Knoll, was not far 
wrong when he one day said, with something in his eyes 
that looked like tears : ‘ ‘ If I had to give Mrs. Ellacombe a 
name, I would call her our Married Madonna. 

On his side. Fasten Garew, dissecting the company after 
the manner of men, said to Yetta, on their drive back to 
the White Hart: 

“ I do not wish you to become intimate with Mrs. Arrol, 
Yetta. I shall cultivate her husband — for reasons of my 
own ; but though I wish you to be perfectly civil, I do not 
want you to be on terms of real intimacy with either her 
or Mrs. Gaysworthy. 

“ Certainly not, dear father, if you do not wish it,^^ she 
answered. 

“We have a difficult and dangerous part to play here,^^ 
he continued. 

She looked at him with astonishment. 

“ Why? How?^^ she asked. 

“Because we are strangers,'^ he answered after a mo- 
ments pause. 


36 


PASTON CAKEW, 


And his answer satisfied his daughter, who supposed 
there was more reasonableness in it than quite appeared on 
the surface. Her father knew what he was about, and she 
was only a girl without experience. Yet it struck her with 
a vague sense of dread — “ a difficult and dangerous part. 
Why should it be either the one or the other? 


CHAPTER V. 

HIS MAGNIFICEKCE, 

The owner of Mock-Beggar prepared to establish him- 
self as became his position and according to his programme. 
Hitherto he had lived but to gather in and hoard, spending 
only what was absolutely necessary on his own mainte- 
nance, and not much beyond on his daughter'^s. Now he 
had made up his mind to mulct his possessions of so much 
for the greater gain to follow. He had to humble the 
Clintons and conquer Beaton Brows. He who had been 
the Pariah was now to take his place among the purest of 
the Brahmins; he who had been as the hunchback of so- 
ciety was now to be the prince, a head and shoulders above 
them all. This would take not a little from that garnered 
fruit of the pagoda-tree; but it must be done. Else would 
he lose the whole work of his life — the whole point and 
meaning of his striving. 

And,. costly as it must needs be, it should not be so costly 
to him as it would be to another. By judicious manage- 
ment he would get fuller value for his outlay, and he would 
be his own superintendent. Thus he would prevent not 
only sinful waste and unlawful peculations, but also the 
copious percentages of the middle-men. He W’ould be 
magnificent, but not spendthrift, and his cloth of gold 
should be a tight fit, with no lapping over of unconsidered 
edges. 

So it proved. The men who, on hearing of Mr. Carew’s 
intention to irnprove and renovate Mock-Beggar, flocked 
round him, hat in hand, soliciting the honor of his orders, 
soon found with whom they had to deal. From the archi- 
tect to the hodman, all hah to submit to close parings of 
those surplusages which are not included in the contract, 
but are winked at by the contractor — to a scraping away 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


37 


of the gilt which left but a flavorless kind of cake for those 
who had hoped to fare sumptuously at the rich man^s ex- 
pense. Whenever they or he had to gain a little advan- 
tage^, one over the other, it was Paston who gained, and 
they who lost. And they had to submit. They might 
fume as they would, -but, like lassoed bisons, they had to 
come to their bearings and acknowledge the strength of the 
cord by which they were held. 

Of all in his employ at this time the architect suffered 
most at Paston^s hand, and the indignities which he had to 
endure as an artist went near to send him mad. His best 
ideas were ruthlessly destroyed by the rich man^s resolute 
determination to allow of no superfluities and no unneces- 
sary fineries — by the vigor with which he scraped down and 
the energy with which he pared away. AVhen harmony of 
style and completeness of idea demanded a carved corbel, 
Paston insisted on a molded boss as cheaper and quite as 
effective. Where a bit of rich tracery would have perfected 
a delicate conception, a plain bevel, or a length of ovules 
or keys turned out by machinery, impoverished the design 
and travestied the thought. What should have been mar- 
ble was stone; what should have been hand-wrought 
was cast-work or molded. In all places not to be tested 
by the touch, and where crafty imitation imposed itself on 
the majority as the real thing, there was the basest com- 
promise and the most flagrant deception. Where art de- 
manded thoroughness, ostentation contented itself with ap- 
pearance, and avarice rejoiced in the saving -effected 
thereby. Paston Oarew was renovating Mock-Beggar for 
his own purposes, not for the honor and glory of the archi- 
tect. Moreover, being some one he paid, this man was for 
the time being, according to his philosophy, his bought 
slave, bound to do his will, and with no more right to re- 
sent or to oppose than has your sporting dog when you call 
him off his point to bring him to heel. 

The same kind of thing went on through all the details 
indiscriminately. The main lines of the frontage, and the 
broader decorations of the hall, the portico, the gallery, 
and the public reception-rooms, were kept as originally 
drawn. They made a handsome show, and were finer than 
those of any other house in the district. They dwarfed 
even the rugged stateliness of Clinton Hall, and made the 
Knoll no better than a cottage, and Five Oaks like a Swics 


38 


PASTON CAREW. 


toy. But all that tvas not necessary to these main lines, 
all that came into the category of artistic perfection, the 
full value of which was understood only by experts, and 
did not touch the general effect— all this was disallowed. It 
was a useless expense, said Paston the millionaire — as us^ 
less as a silken lining which no one sees, or pure gold where 
silver-gilt would do as well. 

More than this: with the outside aspect of a minor pal- 
ace, the private dwelling-rooms and offices were left un- 
decorated, and but scantily repaired. Yetta^s little suite 
was prettily mounted, but in the poorest materials; and 
when things were not confessedly simple they were imita- 
tion — silk on the surface and cotton in the substance. 

It was the same all through. Whatever was seen was 
showy, splendid, magnificent; whatever was not seen was 
mean, scanty, squalid. In the finding of the house the 
same law obtained. There w^ere not enough servants for 
any department; none of them were of the highest class; 
and they were underpaid, underfed, and overworked. The 
food allowance, indeed, was just above the line of perpet- 
ual hunger. Everything was scrupulously allotted and 
apportioned; and under Mr. Carew^s management simplic- 
ity ran into sufficiency, and moderation was semi-starva- 
tion. Under cover of assisting his daughter in her inex- 
l^erience, he himself was the housekeeper; and nothing 
was too small for his attention, nor too worthless for his 
denial. In a house where garden produce was abundant, 
he counted the potatoes one by one, and allowed the green 
vegetables to rot where they stood rather than let his serv- 
ants enjoy freely what at last had to go to the “ vibrios 
of putrefaction.'’^ He consoled himself for this waste by 
reflecting that it made good manure for the ground, and 
that returning to the soil what had been taken from the 
soil was a better employment of greens and carrots than in- 
dulging his servants’ greediness and pampering their dis- 
eased appetites. 

During the time of the repairs and renovation, he and 
YYtta lived in a three-cornered, sunless little room oa the 
ground-floor, which the Clinton girls had made their 

muddle-room. ■” And the sordid economies suggested by 
this narrow den where they eat and lived — where they had 
scant light, no curtains, and only the bare amount of chairs 
and tables necessary — where there was no sense of prodigal- 


MILLIOi^'AIIlE AKD MISEE. 


39 


ity, not even in siinslnne nor yet in space — did much to rec- 
oncile Paston Carew to the larger expense going on in the 
rest of the house. Here, at least, he saved, and set his 
daughter a good example. And thus — what with the 
parsimonious allowance of light and air in this little room 
giving the sense of saving — their one servant, on the plea 
of not having place nor work for more — their own meager 
subsistence, on the plea of this one servant not having time 
for more luxurious cooking — the paring away of all archi- 
tectural superfluities, and the satisfaction that he had in 
scraping oft the gilt and leaving only the bare bones of the 
contract to all concerned — Paston ^s sordid soul was some- 
what soothed, and he suffered less under the pain, of his 
present outlay, than might have been expected. 

Also he had his daughter as his companion; and the in- 
fluence of her "wonderful grace of manner and sweetness of 
disposition charmed, if it did not change, him. The one 
bit of unselfish romance in his life was centered in this in- 
nocent slayer of the only woman he had ever loved — this 
unconscious and irresponsible matricide. When the mother 
died and the child lived, he did not,^ like so many bereaved 
husbands, transform his love for that dead wife into en- 
mity for the living child. He transferred it instead, after 
that period of uncertainty which others besides Gargantua 
have gone through, when he did not know which feeling 
was most powerful — regret for the one or delight in the 
other — and carried to the frail being, whose advent had 
been his Gethsemane, all the deep and concentrated affec- 
tion, he had had for his wife. That blue-eyed and fair- 
haired little girl became the sole star in his dull and dark- 
ened sky — the angel who made beautiful with her presence 
what else would have been his desolate way. For her he 
toiled and lived and amassed his wealth. For her he 
schemed, and denied himself, and wrung his gold out of 
the blood and tears of those miserable wretches whom he 
had made his victims. It was all for her — all for Yetta — 
sweetest name in the whole earth to him. She should be 
the richest heiress in the county, and one of the richest in 
England. She should carry her fair head higher than the 
highest of those who had flouted him; and he would make 
her the local queen, to be worshiped and sought by the 
best — she, his daughter, and he, the son of Maurice Clin- 
ton ^s housekeeper. 


40 


PASTON CAREW, 


He deluded his soul and blinded his conscience by this 
love. He made it the golden setting in which his avarice 
shone like a gem. It was not only his absolution, it was 
his justification for the merciless cruelties he committed, 
for the wrongs he did, the lives he destroyed. Never a 
thought of his iniquity tormented Paston Carew w^hen he 
d ried up the milk of those dark-skinned mothers and starved 
the nurslings at their breasts — when he smote the houses 
the prosperous with the fatal brand of ruin, and took 
from the strong men the fruits of their labor, so that they 
died of want — thrusting them down to the grave in the sun- 
shine of their days, as inexorably as if he had cast them 
beneath the wheels of the car of Juggernaut. No remorse 
haunted him, no doubt dismayed him. It was for Yetta — 
and for vengeance; and the end sanctifi.ed the means. 

And now he had accomplished so much of his lifers great 
plan. He stood where he would be — at tlie gate of his de- 
sires. Hitherto it had all been preparing the canvas — 
tilling the ground. Now he had realized his dreams, and 
blazoned on the living page of fact the picture which had 
been his sustaining hope for all these thirty years. He had 
returned to Beaton Brows ^the richest man there — one who 
counted his thousands to the local hundreds. He had taken 
Mock-Beggar, the second-best house in the place, and taken 
it over the head of his old enemy, Prench Clinton, who es- 
caped the damage prepared for him by the unhonored death 
which gave him the Hall. And having taken it, he had 
made it a finer place to look at than even the Hall itself. 
His daughter was a prize both for wealth and beauty a 
king^s son might be proud to win — and she was his. Her 
'•vealth was his to bestow — her beauty was his to give away. 
Yes, in truth he had conquered all along the line — the 
shame of his birth; the humihation of his youth; the isola- 
tion which had been his inheritance; the decree of social 
ostracism that had been recorded against him — erased now 
by the unaided might of his owm hand. Yes, he had con- 
quered — all but those two snakes of avarice and revenge 
which had coiled round his heart, where they lay so closely 
clasped it seemed as if no power of circumstance, no force 
of feeling, could detach the one nor sate the other. 

Between his avarice and his ambition, the one claiming 
parsimony, the other demanding expenditure — between his 
desire for revenge and his love for his daughter, should her 


MILLIONAIKE AKD MISER. 


41 


love by chance go where his hate rested — which would win? 
It was a strange sea of contradictions into which he was 
plunged, and no man could foresee the issue. 

Meanwhile all things went well. The house was finished,, 
furnished, mounted, and put in order to receive the w^orld, 
which did not show itself reluctant to be received. No 
one, save the Clintons, held out. Every person within 
visitable distance left caixis at Mock-Beggar; and invita- 
tions came to the father and daughter as thick as if Beaton 
Brows and East Fellshire generally had been London in the 
season. The adoption was general; and not even the still- 
est of the county folks refused the right hand of fellow ship 
to the son of the unmarried housekeeper, who now stood as 
a proselyte within the gates, receiving by grace the favors 
denied him by nature. 

Those deep-set burning eyes of his glowed with a strange 
inner light as one by one the social heights were carried, 
and he was confessed the victor over circumstance — usually 
the conqueror of men. His exultant pride was at times 
almost a pain, backed as it always was by that conscious- 
ness of early humiliation which never left him. Scarce a 
day passed wherein he did not remember French Clinton’s 
epithet flung into his face as if it had been a blow, when, 
as lads together, they had met in the road, and the well- 
born gentleman of long descent had insulted the nameless 
nobody. It had become by now a trick of memory, recur- 
ring almost automatically. But it always brought with it 
the sam^ bitterness, the same deep, vehement curse, the 
same intense desire, which now had become design, to re- 
venge himself — arid destroy the Clintons. 

It would come. He knew that it would come. Had not 
his father once said to him in the park when he, a boy 
about twelve, fumed for disappointment because the chest- 
nuts were not ripe at the end of September, “ Tout vient a 
qui sait attendre ”9 And had he not taken that lesson to 
heart and hidden it there, and lived on it ever since he be- 
came a man? Surely! Tout vient d qui sait attendre T^ 
And to him, waiting, would come the ruin of the Clintons. 
Meanwhile he went about the world like any one else; was 
silent, reticent, undeclared; avoided all discussions on mat- 
ters of faith or politics; listened with unflagging patience 
to every propagandist who strove to win him over to the 
right side or the left; silently assented to Grant Ellacombe’s 


42 


PASTOl^ CAKEW, 


pessimism, and smiled as if in harmony with Hugh ArroFs 
Epicurean advocacy of pleasure as the supreme good; was 
respectful to Mr. Harcourt^g classical allusions and tolerant 
of his scientific intolerance; put in a few phrases,, more as 
punctuations than as commentaries, when the lord-lieuten- 
ant thuiK^ered against the Radicals who wished to destroy 
the institutions of the country and degrade the House of 
Lords into the mere echo of Birmingham; and put in the 
same kind of verbal punctuations when Mr. James, the 
Radical member for the borough, button-holed him in the 
market-place and fulminated against the Three Estates. 
What he was and what he really thought remained as pro- 
found a mystery as the manner in which he had amassed 
his rupees; and while all claimed him as a sympathizer, no 
one could count on him as an adherent. Still he was ac- 
cepted. Every one visited him; some courted him; but no 
one really liked him. What of that? His- money was a 
fact; the impression made by his personality was a feeling. 
Between fact and feeling only Bedlamites would hesitate as 
to their choice. 

Yetta counted for something in this strange reversal of 
the old decree. She was so beautiful and so well-bred, so 
simple in her character and so complying in her temper, 
that she won all hearts, and not the toughest shut itself 
against her. Mrs. Arrol was the most negative in praise, 
and Mrs. Harcourt went the nearest to the positive of fault- 
finding; but even they could not say very much against a 
girl who did not flirt with men, and was always attentive 
to and considerate of women, and who never gave the im- 
pression that she thought herself pretty, but rather the re- 
verse, in that she never thought about herself at all. 

By this time odd stories of Paston^s extraordinary mean- 
ness had begun to circulate in the neighborhood. No one 
who did business of any kind with him got off with a whole 
skin; and the value he got for his money would have bor- 
dered on the marveloi^s had it not touched so near to 
swindling. In spite of the breadth of the appearance of 
things at Mock- Beggar, the keen eyes of men accustomed 
to do tilings with English liberality and thoroughness de- 
tected the bald patches and waste places which the miser 
had not the heart to fill up, and wondered greatly at this 
union of ostentation and niggardliness, which was like a 
new reading in domestic economies to them. The servants 


MILLIOKAIRE AJsD MISER. 43 

complained, as servants will when they have a grievance to 
ventilate, and carried tales out of the* house to sympathetic 
ears opened wide to receive them. The skimped allowances 
and inferior food — the sordid condition of all things not' 
seen by the world — their own accommodation, which was 
not fit for the traditional dog — the inability of Miss Carew 
to help them or herself, for all her father’s love for her 
and his indulgence, considering the man he was— the cold 
arbitrariness of his command, treating them as if they were 
his slaves, suffering no reply, justification, remonstrance- 
all became public property before the year was a quarter 
old , with addenda according to individual fancy. 

But all added to the odd kind of fascination which Pas- 
ton had for the neighbors. They stood round him like 
spectators at a fair watching a conjurer Avho promises mar- 
vels. For the world, which so soon gets impatient of those 
who force themselves on its attention, is never weary of 
watching the lives which stimulate and do not satisfy its 
curiosity. They are riddles which every one tries to guess 
■ — dramas of which eveiy one is wishing to see the next act. 
And Paston Carew was eminently a riddle, to- which no one 
had the exact key — a drama, on the denouement of which 
no one had an approximate theory. His reticence was 
iron-bound, his temperament like the ice on the summit of 
a volcano. He had but two vulnerable places — his love for 
his daughter, and, what few would have suspected, his 
superstition. He whose life had been so remarkable an ex- 
ample of the power of a man’s own will and energy to con- 
quer circumstance, added to^ his self-reliance a belief iii 
unseen influences and supernatural interference, which 
swept into the net of his acceptance all the marvels which 
have crystallized round craft here and ignorance there; and 
the miracle which was too strong for Paston Carew was yet 
to seek. But this was his own secret only; and even his 
daughter did not share it. 


CHAPTEE VI. 

FATHER AHD DAUGHTER. 

All things were now in order at Mock-Beggar, and the 
last large outlay had to be made. This was the house- 
warming ” which Paston felt bound to give, to annoy the 


44 


PASTON CAREW, 


Clintons by his magnificence, to dazzle the neighborhood, 
and to return the civilities his reputed wealth had gained 
him. 

‘‘It shall be something to remember, he said to his 
daughter, when he told her that he was about to give a ball, 
such as they had never had before in this hide-bound old 
place. “ They have to recognize their master. And when 
it is over — that will be the last expense he added, with a 
sigh that was almost a groan. 

“ It is sure to be well done if you arrange it, father,^' 
said Yetta, fondly. 

Her belief in her father was as unbounded as her love for 
him. She saw him as he wished her to see him — devoted, 
tender, reasonable, just — not by any means lavish, but emi- 
nently just; and justice, as he often told her, was a greater 
quality than generosity. Any one could fling his shillings 
out of the window, but it required a man of a certain 
genius to apportion fairly, and fit expenditure to need. 
The only thing that troubled Yetta in her father^s manage- 
ment was the food department of the kitchen. For them- 
selves, that eternal leg of mutton alternated by that un- 
varying joint of beef — “ the roasting part of the round 
as being most profitable and economical — seemed natural 
and right. It was the kind of thing she had had at school; 
and she was not accurtomed to variety nor desirous of lux- 
ury. But she did not like to think that the poor servants 
were pinched, as they were, when they came and com- 
plained to her of this and that — either not enough for the 
half of them, or not fit for pigs, let alone human beings; 
and would she please speak to her papa and try to get them 
better rations? which thing, however, he flatly refused to 
do, telling her not to let herself be imposed on, and to trust 
in him that he knew best and did what was right. Beyond 
this all was rose-color; and she did not apply to herself and 
her father Grajit Ellacombe^s doctrine on the subjectivity 
of life. 

“ I know how to lay out my money to the best advant- 
age, and to get the fullest value for my expenditure, which 
’is what few men do know,^^ he answered, in reply to his 
daughter’s flattery of love. “ Any one can order a thing 
of this kind if he does not mind what he spends; only a 
good financier can do it well, yet not throw away an unnec- 
essary rupee. ’ ’ 


MILLIONAIKE AND MISER. 


45 


“ Yes/’ assented Yetta, a little vaguely. “ Whom will 
you have, father?” 

“ Every one who has called on us/’ he said. And 
that is almost every one this side of the county. I have 
made out the list: we shall have about four hundred peo- 
ple.” 

“ What a pity the poor Clintons will be shut out!” said 
Y^etta, who knew nothing of the enmity between the 
houses. She knew no more than that there were four girls 
in deep mourning, that the family was under a heavy cloud 
of sorrow, and that of course they had not called on this 
account — no other reason being possible, and this one all- 
sufficient. 

Paston lowered his eyes to hide what he knew spoke in 
them. It was not in his programme to declare public war. 
There are methods of attack besides a fight in the open. 

“ They are in mourning,” he said, curtly. 

‘‘ Yes,” she returned; “ so of course they can not come. 
But I am so sorry for all those poor girls. They all look 
exactly alike, exactly of the same age, and are so wretched. 
Why are they so wretched, father?” 

A flash came from Paston’s eyes, which lighted up his 
face as if with infernal fire. 

‘‘ How should I know?” he said, coldly; then again 
that fire shot from his eyes with a kind of demoniacal tri- 
umph, as he said, in his cold, measured accents: “ Perhaps 
some one whom they once wronged has cursed them — and 
the, curse is working.” 

Yetta shuddered. 

‘‘ What an awful thought!” she cried. “Do you be- 
lieve in such curses, father? Would God let them take 
etfect?— for they are wicked, in themselves, and surely he 
would not let them work! We have no right to curse each 
other. We ought to pity and forgive instead.” 

“ In Utopia,” said Paston .Carew, with a vicious sneer. 
Then he added, in his usual manner: “ These are questions 
no man can settle otf-hand. We do not know by what 
beings we are surrounded — what power of command lies in 
a man’s own soul — what influences he can direct and regu- 
late by his will. The Bible speaks of a curse as omnipo- 
tent. In India it is both believed in and acted on; and I 
myself have seen it work the will of him who was wronged 
— of him who cursed his wrong-doer. ” . 


46 


PASTON CAREW, 


He said these last words with strange fervor^ as though it 
pleased him to utter them. 

“ Things seem to be different in India from what we 
know them here in England/ ^ said Yetta. “ Those jug- 
glers — what extraordinary things they do! — and then the 
Fakirs who are buried for six months, and are dug up 
again alive and well! What a wonderful country ! How 
much I should like to see it again !^'’ 

“ Yes, India stands nearer to the Unseen than this fat, 
pudding-headed West/ ^ said Fasten. “ There, men have 
not overlaid their spiritual faculties with the gross food and 
heavy drink which make the Englishman like one of his 
own cart-horses — strong, muscular, brutal, material. In 
India we have a life beyond the physical, where the Unseen 
is all-powerful. Man has thus two forces instead of one, 
and the spiritual is the stronger of the two. There are 
things, child, which we must accept though we do not 
understand them; and the power of the curse is of them.^^ 

“ But have the Clintons done wrong, father? Have they 
harmed any one so that this awful kind of revenge would 
be permitted?*^ 

“ Have they?^^ he answered, quickly. “ How should I 
know?^^ He then said, in a measured voice: “ I have not 
the honor of their acquaintance. 

“ They seem to be harmless enough,'’^ said Yetta. “ And 
yet they are not quite like other people. Last Sunday, at 
church, when we were standing up for the hymn. Lady 
Jane looked at me so strangely! When I looked at her — 
for I think I was unconsciously fascinated, and felt bound 
to look — she never turned her eyes away, nor lowered 
them, as most people do when they are caught staring — but 
just kept them fixed, as if she wanted to look me down. 

“ And did she?^^ asked Fasten, hastily. 

“ Of course! I was only too glad to turn my own eyes 
away. I think she would have turned me into stone if I 
had not. What a strange face she has! — not a pleasant 
one, it is too sharp — and yet she must have been pretty 
when she was young. 

“ Ho not let her get this kind of power over you,^-’ said 
Fasten, very earnestly. “ You must resist her, child. 
She is trying to overcome you.^^ 

. “ Oh, it did not make me really uncomfortable,’^ said 
the girl, simply. “ It was only rather odd, and not quite 


MILLIOITAIIIE AKD MISER. 47 . 

lady-like; bufc I forgot it when the hymn was over. I only 
thought that she would have been better bred and more 
lady-like — that was all. 

“All the same, do not let her overcome you/^ repeated 
her father as earnestly as before. “ You do not know 
what influence she may have to hurt you. 

Yetta looked at him with some surprise. She had been 
brought up by a woman who had reduced superstition to 
its smallest possible fraction, and, outside the limits of the 
Christian miracles, had denied the existence of marvels. 

“ While I am with you, father, I need fear no one,^^ she 
said, affectionately. 

He smiled, and a certain sadness in his smile gave a 
strange softness and almost beauty to his keen, hungry, 
razor-edged face. 

“ Ho, while I am with you, you have nothing to fear,^’ 
he said, tenderly. “ I have power enough to protect my 
own. Money is the true Solomon^s seal whicm compels 
even the demons. And yet I have not so much, he added, 
with an accent almost of fear. “ Do not think, my child, 
because I do what I can to place you well in the world, and 
make your life happy, that I am rich. I am not ! I have 
only just enough to live on — and that with great care, 
great economy; understand that, Yetta — great care, great 
economy,^ ^ he repeated, with a tremulousness that bordered 
on tears. 

“ Yes, dear father,’^ she returned, cheerfully. “ I do 
not wish to be extravagant. 

“ Good girl, no!^^ he said. “But now let us think of 
the ball. Tell me, do you specially wish for any young 
man as your partner?^ ^ 

He asked this sharply, though he knew that he had no 
cause for. suspicion. 

“ Ho, said Yetta, simply. “I do not care for one 
more than another. Of course I hke best those who dance 
best — but then so do other girls, she added, her unselflsh- 
ness breaking through the girl’s natural desire to have effi- 
cient partners; “ so I must take my chance. Or rather, 
in our own house, I must give up to others and think of 
them.” 

“Ho; as the young mistress you must flrst be thought 
of,” said Paston, flrmly. “ So I shall give you to Lord 
Masdew as his special charge. And now, your dress. A^ou 


48 


PASTON CAREW, 


must be dressed \Yell — you must outshine them all. At 
your age of course you must wear white. I should like you 
to have a white velvet, embroidered about with silver, 

“ Dear father I said Yetta, a little aghast. ‘‘A white 
velvet embroidered with silver would be too heavy for a 
dance, and not quite suitable for my age. 

‘‘ It would be superb. It would be the best. It would 
make you like a queen,^^ said Fasten, with an outburst of 
parental enthusiasm rare even from him, enthusiastic as he 
was about his daughter. 

“ It would be very beautiful, dear father — superb, as you 
say,^^ said Yetta, with a certain pretty hesitation that 
masked a very real dismay; ‘‘ but indeed, believe me, it 
would not be suitable. And then it would be so fearfully 
expensively^ she added, almost by instinct adopting the 
argument she felt would be most weighty with her father. 

His keen face, which had expanded with the pleasure of 
his pride, contracted into its usual expression of hungry 
watching and reticent self-defense. 

“ Yes, I suppose it would be expensive, he said, in a 
somewhat lowered voice. 

“ Indeed, dear father, it would — very — far more so than 
necessary, yy she answered. 

“ About how much — twenty poundspyy he asked. 
“ Twenty pounds is a large sum to give for a girl’s frock 

‘‘ It would be twice that,yy said Yetta, lifting up her eye- 
brows. ‘‘ White velvet and silver — it would be ruinous I’y 

‘‘ We must not think of it, then,yysaid Paston, hurriedly. 
‘‘ It was only my fancy, and we must give it up for some- 
thing more modest. It is folly to throw money away un- 
necessarily. yy 

‘‘ Yes,yy said Yetta; ‘‘ great folly, yy 

‘‘ And a simpler dress will, as you say, be more suitable 
— even more becoming, yy he argued. 

“ Much more,yy she said, emphatically. 

“ Ten pounds ought to get you a beautiful frock, yy he 
said. 

“ Yes, it will — quite beautiful,’ y she answered. 

“ Eight, or perhaps even less might do? What say you 
to eight — or, indeed, five? Five ought to do for you, 
Yetta. yy 

“I will see what I can do with Mrs. Capper, ’’ she re- 


MILLIOIn^AIEE and misek. 49 

plied. ‘‘ Leave it to me, and I will be as economical as 
possible. Trust me, father. 

‘‘ Yes,'"'’ he returned., doubtingly. “ You will be all 
that is careful and good, I know, and I can trust you; but 
you are young, my Yetta, and inexperienced, and the world 
is made up of wretches who prey on inexperience. I must 
take care of you and myself. So let it stand thus — ^you 
must tell your woman five pounds is the limit, and she 
must give you a handsome gown for the money. 

He breathed a sigh of relief as he said this. He had lost 
his vision of his fair child in queenly velvet and maiden sil- 
ver, but he had saved his money. Forty pounds for his 
fancy? Preposterous! He who had millions — to spend 
that sum on one dress, albeit to aid his cherished scheme 
of supremacy, and for the adornment of his beloved child? 
The thought made him shiver as at a danger barely passed, 
and involuntarily he closed his fingers on the key of the 
safe where he kept his securities and his records — those 
securities which he was never weary of handling and caress- 
ing, verifying the gross amount and adding to the bulk. 
Week by week and almost day by day he was investing and 
reinvesting — keeping his balance at the bank as low as was 
in any way workable, and voluntarily making himself feel 
cramped and straitened that he might be justified in his 
miserliness. 

“And now, after this ball, Yetta, we must draw in, 
he went on to say. “ Too much of this would ruin me 
outright. As it is, it will make a terrible hole in my 
finances. 

“ Dear father! and you are spending all this money part- 
ly to give me pleasure,^ ^ she said, affectionately. “ How 
good you are!^^ 

He looked at her fondly. 

“Reward me by being a good and dutiful child, he 
said; “ prudent in your conduct and economical in your 
expenditure. Let no one have cause to talk of you, Yetta, 
except in terms of praise — and even not too much of that 
— and help me to save in every way you can.-"^ 

_ “I will,^’ she answered. 

“ People think me much richer than I am,^^ he con- 
tinued. “ Do not you make the same mistake. I have 
been spending frightfully since I came to England, and I 
am by many, many thousands a poorer man to-day than I 


50 


PASTON CAKEW, 


was when I landed. I have spent fully half my fortune. 
You can easily believe that by what you see of the outlay I 
have made.^-^ 

Yes/^ said Yetta. ‘‘You must have spent tremen- 
dously, dear father. You have bought and beautified and 
furnished this lovely house — and now this ball!" 

“This ball is the last, he repeated. “After this we 
must live with extreme frugality. 

“ Yes," she said; “ though I do not really see where we 
can save,-’^ she added, ingenuously. 

“We use too much sugar, said Paston, vdth the air of 
a man noticing a defect, but too magnanimous to find 
fault. “ And sugar is not wholesome when taken in large 
quantities. It will ruin your teeth and skin, Yetta. 

“I will be more careful,^-’ said Yetta. “ I will leave it 
oif in my tea.^^ 

“ Do so, my dear. It will be better for yoiir health as 
well as for my pocket. 1 count on you, you see, my child, 
to help me in every way possible. And it will be better 
for you in the end. I want to leave you a sufficient income 
when I am gr>ne. All that we save now will be for your 
advantage hereafter. But I assure you we must save. I 
have already spent over two-thirds of my fortune.^'’ 

“ That is more than half,'’^ said Yetta, a little perplexed 
in her arithmetic. 

“ Yes, more than half,-’^ he answered, with decision. 
“ Two-thirds if a halfpenny — and even more.^^ 


CHAPTEK VII. 

THE HOUSE-WAKMIH’G.‘ 

This house-warming at Mock-Beggar was naturally an 
event of some importance at Beaton Brows. Beally, society 
had had enough to satisfy its cravings in these later times. 
Usually so uneventful, these last few months had given it 
cause for endless talk, and suspended its normal occupa- 
tion of scarifying reputations, by which it generally kept 
itself alive. The suicide — or death by misadventure? — of 
old Colonel Clinton; the return of the disreputable house- 
keepers formerly ostracized son as a nabob possessed of 
untold wealth; his purchase and renovation of Mock-Beg- 
gar, flung like a challenge in the face of the CUntons; his 


MILLIOKAIKE AND MISEK. 


51 


character for meanness and hardness, and the mystery of 
silence with which he surrounded his past life and present 
thoughts; Yetta^s sweetness and beauty, added to the 
almost fabulous tale of her presumptive possessions; and 
now this house-warming, to which all looked as a kind of 
key-note, with the speculations and new dresses it included 
— yes, without doubt there had been a succession of rich 
harvests, and no barren time as of old, when ingenuity had 
to invent that industry might destroy. 

At last the great night came, and Beaton Brows with all 
the visitable people for miles round streamed through the 
wide-opened gates and thronged the spacious rooms of the 
house where two generations of Clintons had lived — pend- 
ing the time when they should migrate to the Hall which 
should have been Paston Oarew^s. Everything was mag- 
nificently done. Criticism which came to condemn re- 
mained to praise; and the fiaws so diligently sought were 
not to be found. 

Paston, millionaire and miser, knew^ what was expected 
of him and what he had to buy. He w^ent ahead of the 
first and made the last secure. It was a costly affair, and 
he would rather have parted with so much blood than all 
this gold; but it had to be done, and he paid the price like 
a man whose first difficulty had been in his decision. That 
made, the rest was comparatively easy. 

In this entertainment Paston^s financial genius came into- 
play, as it had already done in his house-building. He got 
the great London firm, with whom he contracted for the 
W'hole thing, into a vise, and squeezed them as dry as a 
lemon. He allowed no skimping of supplies and no inferi- 
ority of material. He would have his money^s worth, down 
to the lastiarthing — and he had it. They, on their side, 
had made their bargain a little too airily. Sharp men of 
business, by whose professional thaiimaturgy the stipulated 
pounds were wont to .multiply themselves like the bulbs of 
a lily, and unforeseen extras were sure to come to the same 
amount as the original sum agreed on, they had not expected 
to meet with more than their match in a country gentJeman 
presumably unused to deal wdth figures. They had counted 
on turning a pretty penny on the transaction; but they 
had to acknowledge their master in the art of financial 
sleight of hand before they had done with Paston Carew, 
and the would-be biters were, shrewdly bitten. Hence the 


62 


PASTOIf CAREW, 


thing was magnificently done as much at the exi^ense of the 
contractors as of himself; and to know this was to Paston 
as an anodyne laid on a sore. 

‘‘ Eemarkably well done — really quite creditable to the 
taste of our host!^^ said Mr. Arrol, with that curious air of 
patronage which some men carry into their approbation — 
an air which says: I should have done it rather differently 
and decidedly better; but this is highly commendable, and 
may be judiciously praised. 

“ Rather too much glare and glitter/^ said Mr. Ella- 
combe. 

“Think so?^^ returned the other. “You are wrong. 
Half the success of a thing of this kind is in plenty of light 
and showy ornaments — lights, flowers, champagne, color, 
and shady places for quiet couples — and there you are! 
Not much else is wanted to make the thing go well. 

“ Perhaps you are right, said Mr. Ellacombe. “ Eroth 
of the lightest kind goes down better than more solid sub- 
stance. It is the law of modern society. 

“ My dear fellow, what would you have?^^ laughed the 
banker. “ Solidity and thoroughness would be as much 
out of place in a thing of this kind as a ‘ Miserere chanted 
by monks for music, or an ox roasted whole for supper. 
The genius of the day goes for froth. That band in the 
ball-room, rattling out the veriest rubbish by way of mu- 
sic, but rubbish which makes the young people dance their 
best — ices and creams and champagne in the supper-room 
— those twopenny-halfpenny lights which make so good an 
effect in the garden — those plants hired for the occasion at 
so much the dozen — those awnings of striped calico fes- 
tooned to look like tents — all show and no substance, if you 
will! But what more would you have? Theyailswer their 
purpose.'’^ 

“ I would not have this kind of thing at all,^^ said Mr. 
Ellacombe. “ This sacriflce of money to mere show--the 
mere passing amusement of the senses — is as childish as it is 
disastrous. It is like burning away one^s fortune in fire- 
works.'’^ 

“It all stimulates trade and gives employment, said Mr. 
Arrol. 

“ So would things of graver value and more perma- 
nence,'” was the repl3^ 

The banker smiled for all answer; then bowed with more 


millio:naike a:nd misee. 


53 


than ordinary deference of manner to handsome Lady Lay- 
man, who came in on the arm of her antiquated husband, 
Sir James. Superbly dressed and magnificently arranged, 
she looked, as she always did, the very incarnation of cheer- 
fulness and content. He, on the contrary, had the air of a 
man under sentence of death and not reconciled to his fate. 
He was a small, bloodless, shriveled atomy, whose close- 
fitting black wig did not reach beyond his fair wife^s dim- 
pled chin. Full forty years stretcned between their respect- 
ive registers; but senile dotage on the one side, ambition 
and impecuniosity on the other, bridged the natural chasm ; 
and the eldest daughter of the retired army surgeon became 
the well do\vered wife of the worn-out old city knight, and 
thus slipped forever the Cinderella garments into which 
she had been born. 

8o far as the world saw, she made a good and debonair 
kind of wife. She gave no cause for scandal; was discreet 
while gay; pleasant to all and compromised with none; 
was evidently a good woman of business^witness her. fre- 
quent visits to the bank, and Mr. ArroFs as frequent 
visits to Clear View, where she and Sir James lived, her 
affairs requiring a great deal of good management — 
especially since the birth of her boy — now just a year old. 
What on earth made Sir James, so melancholy and de- 
pressed no man could tell, and my smiling, gracious lady 
gave no hint. 

Mr. Arrol had his theory; but then Mr. Arrol always 
had his theory, no matter what the subject. He knew 
where the moles ran under-ground and when the night- 
shade seeded; and not a dog barked but he could sketch 
you the, shape of the intruder who had stolen past the ken- 
nel. He never gave out this theory clear and clean with 
respect to Sir James Layman^s evident discomfort. He 
only said he could guess why, but he was too deep in the 
confidence of the family to discuss their affairs; and then 
he used to add that Sir James was an old fool, and my lady 
had mu3h to bear; and was it her fault if the daughters by 
the first marriage made themselves unpleasant because they 
regretted this birth of the heir who would diminish their 
portions so seriously? If the old boy had wanted to keep 
his daughters’ fortunes intact, he should not have married 
a fine young woman like Lady Layman; and as things 
were, he was as ungrateful as he was ridiculous. 


54 


PASTON CAREW. 


Which grew to be the current opinion concerning these 
two people; my lady was to be pitied and Sir James was an 
ungrateful old fool; and the daughters of the first marriage 
were utterly unreasonable to object to the advent of little 
Eegy, the heir, seeing that it was only what might have 
been expected. 

Standing in line with her husband, backed by a bank of 
plants and fiowers, wherein artificial dracasnas and colias 
were so deftly mingled with real geraniums and fuchsias as 
to have deceived the lynx eyes of Paston himself, pretty 
Elsie Arrol — his Laura — was talking aesthetic nonsense 
with Fitz-George Standish — her Petrarca. They were be- 
wailing the hopeless vulgarity of the present, and the need 
of going back on the traditions of the past if society were 
to be saved from its own corruption. They had already 
condemned science as profanation, steam as iniquity, ma- 
chinery as Satanic, and had confessed to Art as the one 
pole-star in the mental sky by which man ought to guide 
his course; and now they were criticising the guests, like 
two commonplace gossips of no more special culture than 
the rest! But as he stood in the pose of a Byzantine saint, 
and she in the stiff dignity of a Medicean lady, they sin- 
cerely believed that their commoniilaces were superior ut- 
terances, and that the vulgarity of mind they condemned 
they did not share. 

“ How much better it would have been," they said, ‘‘ had 
it been a costume ball, where Instorical correctness would 
have taught~and shamed — the rampant hideousness of the 
present time! Francia, Luini, Botticelli — what mines of 
beauty would have been opened ! Beaton Brows might have 
dated a new era from this night had things been done with 
artistic skill and judgment.-’^ 

“ Even a calico ball would have been better than this,^^ 
said Elsie Arrol. 

‘‘ There would have been less ostentation," said Fitz- 
George Standish, with a glance at his own mortification in 
broadcloth — he who longed to clothe himself in velvet, 
with jeweled baldrick, band and collar, plumed hat and 
needle- made lace, and who thought himself defrauded of 
his rights because he had been born in the nineteenth cent- 
ury and not at any time from the third to the sixteenth. 

“ The ostentation of these successful 'parvenus makes 
the heart of the true artist sad, and withers up the joy of 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


55 


the earnest Christian who would go back to the days of the 
primitive faith/^ he added, in his slow, weak, drawling 
voice. 

How handsome Lady Dayman looks to-night said 
Mrs. Ellacombe, who was standing near; and herself, in 
her own way, one of the most beautiful women in the room. 

She would be more beautiful if she were dressed with 
more real taste, said Mrs. Arrol, with a complacent 
glance at her own stiff, stately Medicean costume — ^the least 
of all suited to her style. She is far too modern — too 
millinerfied.^^ 

With a superabundance of debased fioritura,^^ said 
Fitz-George Standisli. “ Too florid in flesh and too highly 
decorated in person. 

“ A great deal,^^ said Elsie Arrol. 

“ Oh! you two saints go in for the pre-Eaphaelite craze — 
lank folds with nothing underneath "’em, square jaws, long 
chins, flat lips, and attenuated limbs suggestive of insuf- 
ficient food and defective assimilation/^ rattled off the 
banker, with a laugh. Then, in a half -aside to liis wife, he 
added, gallantly: I am very glad, my -dear, that you are 
of a different type from your ideal. You would not have 
suited me else. By Jove! to-night you are positively de- 
licious. Though 1 do not think Lady Dayman a failure, 
you are the better of the two!^^ 

‘‘ I know what a Philistine you are, Hugh. You need 
not try to flatter me into approving your bad taste. But I 
am glad you think I look nice. Only I don’t beheve you 
really do!’"’ she answered, with a coquettish pout that 
masked a smile and meant an invitation. 

The Arrols did a great deal of this kind of flirting both 
in private and in public. She found it useful, and he made 
it pay. 

The prettiest girl here, however, is Miss Carew her- 
self,'” said Mrs. Ellacombe, looking affectionately at Yetta, 
who, with Lord Masdew, at this moment came through the 
muslin-curtained door-way of the ball-room. “ Her col- 
oring is quite as good as Lady Dayman’s, and she is more 
refined both in feature and figure.-” 

“ She will be splendid when she is a little older,” said 
Mr. Arrol. “ At present, she is immature — tant soit j)eu 
green and crude. Her arms, for instance, are too thin — 
r amour n’ a pas p>asse par la. ” 


56 


PASTON CAEEW, 


“You mean she is not yet spoiled/^ said Grant Ella- 
combe. 

“Is she not a little too young to connect with love at 
all?’^ added his wife. “ A girEslife is so charming, if you 
men would but believe it, and leave it alone. 

“ And lose the most beautiful moment and the most de- 
lightful task?’^ said Mr. Arrol. 

“ Lose nothing; merely wait, and let her enjoy herself in 
her own way. We who know the pleasure of a happy girl- 
hood, grudge the time when its careless serenity shall have 
passed — when its happy indifference shall be exchanged 
for the pain and excitement of love. 

Mr. AiTol laughed— that rich fruity laugh which some- 
how associated itself with the idea of grapes and port-wine. 

“ That is a woman ^s view,^^ he said. “ Happily we men 
think differently. ^ 

“ Girls are women — or rather women were once girls, 
and know,^^ was Mrs. Ellacombe^s reply. 

“ No life is perfect till it has passed through the fiery 
baptism of a desolating love, ” said Eitz-George Standish, 
mournfully. 

“ The adjective was needless. It is inherent to its con- 
dition,^^ said Grant Ellacombe. 

“ No, no. Grant! That I deny!’^ cried his wife, smiling. 

“ And I!^’ said Mr. Arrol. 

“ But from a different standpoint,^ ^ said Mr. Ellacombe, 
a little uneasily. 

“ Probably,’^ replied the banker, dryly. 

Yetta crossed the room and came up to them. Surely 
Mrs. Ellacombe^s verdict was justified! She was by far the 
most beautiful creature of the evening, for all that she was 
still in the unopened bud of girlhood where others had 
more maturity of perfection. 

She was dressed very simply, in some soft clinging stuff 
of the cream-color suited to her age and state; yet she had 
somehow the air of being better dressed than those whose 
materials were worth four times as much as hers; and, 
while in no way assthetic, her want of superfluous bows and 
ends and puifs and flounces gave her a certain simplicity of 
tone and statuesque grace eminently lovely. She wore a 
magnincent necklace of pearls — each pearl a small fortune 
in itself. There were three rows of perfect purity and 
more than ordinary size. This necklace had been one of 


MILLIOITAIRE AKD MISER. 


57 


the tributes exacted by Paston from a certain rajah whose 
unjust cause he had upheld and gained — for a considera- 
tion; part of which was in these superb jewels. Her rich 
auburn hair was bound as neatly round her head as its nat- 
ural curls allowed; but everywhere it broke out into gra- 
cious httle rings and fringes which shone like ruddy gold 
when they caught the light. Her tall and slender figure had 
in it the very thought of a lily — the very essence of a 
flower; and in the graceful undulation of her movements 
w^as the meaning of melody and the translation of rhythm 
into action. 

Flushed with her dance — smiling with a girPs frank 
pleasure in the brilliancy, the excitement of all about her 
— glad that the thing was such a success, and that her fa- 
ther was thereby glorified — she was like something removed 
from the ordinary creatures of clay; and even Mr. Arrol, 
who had a moment ago called her crude and unripe, caught 
his breath as men do when a beautiful woman passes by. 

“ Do you not dance, Mrs. Arrol?^^ she asked the bank- 
er’s pretty little wife, still standing in stiff dignity backed 
by the bank of flow^ers, where Fitz-George Stand ish posed 
for a Byzantine saint. 

I dance? oh, no! Dancing is not at all in my line!” 
answered Elsie, with a smile more of pity than of pleasure. 

“ How sorry you must be,” said Yetta, simply. 

‘‘You are fond of dancing, I see. Miss Carew,” said 
Mrs. Arrol, with her soft stare. 

“ Yes, I am,” she answered. 

“With reason,” laughed Lord Masdew. 

“ How pretty the garden looks from here!” she said, to 
divert the talk from herself. 

It was filled with colored electric lamps, by which the 
flower-beds looked as if they were of silver — silver plates 
out of which rose living gems — rubies, sapphires, golden 
cups, silver wands, and great bowls of shining pearl. 

“ It is superbly Eastern!” said Mr. Arrol. 

“ It is lovely, my dear!” said Mrs. Ellacombe, heartily. 

“Yes,” answered Y^etta; “that is its beauty— it is 
Eastern! It is like a picture out of the ‘ Arabian Eights.’ ” 

“ Are you still in that cycle?” asked Fitz-George Stand- 
ish. “ We archaeologists have gone through it. This 
Christian civilization of ours has had another apotheosis.” 


58 


PASTON CAEEW, 


“ Then you do not like it?'^ asked Yetta^ with a little 
air of distress. 

“ I did not say that/" he replied. ‘‘ I was only drawing 
a comparison."" 

“ Proverbially odious/" put in Mr. Arrol. 

“ I was afraid you were not pleased/" said the girl^ sim- 
ply. 

‘‘ Who would fail to be pleased?"" was Mr. ArroPs gal- 

^ TTT- J Zi. 50 



impossible not to be/ was Mrs. pJllacombe s rejny. 

Slowly traversing the rooms, speaking very little to any 
but a few words to all, Paston Carew did the honors in his 
dry, quiet, reserved way. No one was left out, and no one 
was specially noticed, save those who had titles — title and 
hereditary rank counting their full value with the man who 
had conquered fortune against odds. Among others he 
gravitated to the small knot of Beaton Brows° notabilities 
with whom his daughter had just been speaking. Now she 
had been claimed by her partner and h^ gone back to the 
ball-room. 

Apparently Paston had taken a great liking for Mr. 
Arrol— his opposite in all things; for he never lost an op- 
portunity for some courteous and half-flattering notice. Mr. 
Arrol was accustomed to this kind of thing from persons 
whose revenues were a little shaky, and for whom, there- 
fore, it might be supposed private friendship would bolster 
up rotten securities; but this chain of reasoning did not 
hold good with Paston Carew. Between the two it waS' he 
who could help the bank, not the bank which would ac- 
commodate him. Hence Hugh Arrol took these dry, re- 
served, but all the same, flattering notices as due to his 
owm personal merits only; and he was proportionately grati- 
fied. 

To Mr. Ellacombe, too, Paston was always in a Certain 
sense markedly respectful. The pessimism which found 
more sorrow than joy in creation he let it be seen fell in 
line with his own views, for Mrs. Ellacombe just suited 
him -as Yetta"s chaperOn and chief adviser among women. 
Little Mrs. Arrol he left alone as much as he could, seeing 
that he had set himself to gain her husband. He could 
not follow her intellectual vagaries, and, indeed, looked on 
her in his heart as slightly insane. He thought the same 
of Fitz-George Standish, whose want of business faculty he 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


59 


held in supreme contempt; while to himself, his only con- 
fidant, he said of Hugh Arrol: “ He is a vain, sensual fool, 
who squanders his money like a school-boy of Grant Ella- 
combe: ‘‘ He is a sour-livered misanthrope, who does not 
know the pride of ambition, the value of money, nor the 
joy of success. 

So much for the dry flattery he shed over Mr. Arrol, for 
the respectful acquiescence in his philosophy intimated to 
Grant Ellacombe. 

As he stood there, at once observant and reticent, re- 
spectful to others and dignified in his own person — the re- 
puted owner of millions — the richest man in the whole 
county of Fellshire — the conqueror of fortune all along the 
line — the father of Yetta, who herself was a royal personas 
prize— a man to whom wealth and rank, blue blood and 
long inheritance, paid homage — but one thought possessed 
them all: “ And this is Patty Oarew^s bastard son!^^ 

He and they had the same thought. It ran round them 
like an electric shock; but while it crimsoned Elsie ArroPs 
cheeks with a sudden flush of social shame, and lifted the 
oomers of Eitz-George Standish^s narrow lips, it made Mr. 
ArroPs soft eyes twinkle with suppressed humor, saddened 
Grant Ellacombe ^s lank visage with a deeper sense of the 
hollowness, the unreahty of all things, and shone like a 
divine ray of sympathy in his wife^s sweet, loving smile, as 
she turned to Paston and said, with almost tremulous cor- 
diality: “ I congratulate you, Mr. Carew, with all my 
heart. Everything is perfect. 

Just a shade of emotion flitted over Paston ^s face. 
Though not his supreme triumph, this was something won 
on the way, and a forecast of the conquest he had given 
himself so much pain to make. But he did not show more 
than just this fleeting glimmer of emotion, and only Mrs. 
Ellacombe saw it. 

“ I am glad you are pleased,^-’ he said, coldly. “ I wish 
my friends to enjoy themselves. 

It would be impossible not to do so in such a lovely 
scene/ ^ she answered. ‘^It is like a dream. It is abso- 
lutely perfect ^ 

“ You honor me too much,^^ he answered, with a frigid 
smile; but the flashing eyes which met hers were as if 
alight with internal fire. And Mrs. Ellacombe believed in 
the eyes more than in the smile. 


GO 


PASTOi^- CAREW, 


He stood there for some time talking to his guests^ or 
rather listening more than he talked, and then fresh ar- 
rivals took him away, and they themselves prepared to dis- 
perse and form new combinations. 

“ But,^^said Mr. Arrol to Grant Ellacombe, when Pas- 
ton had passed away, and just as he himself was on the 
point of joining Lady Dayman to take her into the garden 
of which Elsie and Fitz-George Standish had despised the 
Oriental illumination, “ I fancy we shall see something 
more here than an entertainment before all is done! This 
is only the prelude — of that I am convinced.^’’ 

“ Whatever happens, I hope it will not be a repetition of 
this,"’"’ said Grant Ellacombe; and Fitz-George Standish 
took up the parable and said : 

‘‘ I wish the Clintons had kept the place, or could get it 
back again. A parvenu is never anything but a parvenu, 
however rich he may be; and blue blood keeps its color to 
the last. 

‘‘ Ah, Standish, you see we are not all descended from 
the Crusaders!^’ said Mr. Arrol, with, a laugh, as he strolled 
up the room and into the smaller drawing-room, where he 
found handsome Lady Dayman talking with her quiet 
cheerfulness to the commandant of the garrison, not un- 
willing to be fascinated. 

“Have you seen the gardens. Lady Dayman?^ ^ asked 
the banker, after he had mingled in the conversation for a 
few moments, and inspired the commandant with the wish 
to fling him out of the window. 

“.No, said my lady, whose smile showed nothing of 
her secret echo of that wish. 

Mr. Arrol was becoming a bore, and the commandant 
was both fresh and amusing. 

“ Let me take you,'’^ he said, offering his arm; and the 
lad}^ with a smile to each man, accepted it, and went out. 

But the walk, for all its wonder and beauty, was not a 
success, and the velvet paw proved its claws. 

“ Well, my child, have you been happy asked Paston, 
when the whole thing was over; when the music was hushed 
and the last of the guests had gone; when the lights had 
been extinguished in the rooms and the gardjn, leaving the 
flowers to the night-moths and the ivy to the owls. “ Have 
you enjoyed your evening?^-’ 


millio:n^aire and miser. 


61 


Yes, intensely!^^ she said, enthusiastically. “ It has 
been like a dream 

“ A golden one!’^ he answered, with a suppressed ffroan. 
‘‘ It has half ruined me!^^ 

‘‘It must have been tremendously expensive said 
Yetta, with innocent sympathy. 

“ Yes, indeed. It will entail short commons for months 
to come, I assure you, my dear. But I do not mind the 
outlay so much seeing that you did your part well. I 
watched you closely, and felt proud of my girl. ” 

She flung herself into his arms. 

“ Dearest and best father, I am so glad I pleased youl^^ 
she said. ‘‘ Your praise is my highest blessing. ” 

This was, in fact, her brightest moment. It put out the 
glory of all the rest, and was more melodious to her ears 
than the sweetest music that had been played. 

“ And Lord Masdew — what did you make of him?’^ he 
asked. 

“Not much. He dances nicely, but is rather stupid. 
Perhaps I was too happy to care much for my partner, 
she added, her gentle nature overcoming her very slight 
manifestation of “ imperfect sympathy. ” 

“ Did any one notice your pearls?^^ he then asked. 

“ Yes; a great many people. Mrs. Ellacombe and Mrs. 
Arrol — both said how beautiful they were. So did Lord 
Masdew and Lady Dayman.^'’ 

He laughed — a quiet chuckle rather than an open laugh. 

“ They would buy up all the jewels in Fellshire,"' he 
said, holding out his hand. “ Now give them to me. I 
will lock them up in the safe. And you might as well give 
me your and handkerchief. I will take care of them 
till you want them again. 

“ Thank you, dear,^^ said A^etta, simply, seeing in this 
act only the loving care for her he wished her to see. 

She gave him her fan and lace handkerchief, unfastened 
the necklace from her throat and laid it in his, hand. He 
clutched the pearls with a feverishness that struck her as 
something strange and painful, and he looked at them with 
almost personal fondness. 

“ Now they are safe!^^ he said, drawing a deep breath. 

I have trembled for them all this evening. Now go to 
bed, my child. Take great care of your dress; it must 
last you for years. Do not throw away your flowers — they 


PASTON- CAREW, 


02 

cost money — and with care will keep fresh for many days, 
nnd so save those in the garden. Now go. Sleep well and 
do not dream. ^ ^ 

They parted for what remained of the night, but he him- 
self did not go to bed. When all was quiet he stole down- 
stairs and went through the rooms, picking up this asd 
that left over from use or forgotten. The contractors had 
cleared away all that remained and was available of their 
supplies, but some things were not worth the trouble of 
collecting, nor the cost of carriage. These were Paston^s 
treasures. Small ends of colored candles; small spoonfuls 
of oil; a few scattered flowers; a few fragments left on the 
dissolute-looking supper table — he made a pile of these 
odds and ends, and carried them to the locked-up pantries 
below, for the future use of his servants. He looked like a 
humanized vulture as he picked about tire remnants, and 
greedily seized whatever seemed likely to be serviceable. In 
his faded old dressing-gown, fringed and frayed about the 
edges — his worn-out gray felt slippers and greasy smoking- 
cap of a quarter of a century old — hungrily peering right 
and left— the fresh morning light, which touched the dew 
on the grass and turned it into flame, falling through the 
chinks in the shutters, and aiding the glimmer of his one 
miserable candle — in this sordid, mean, and despicable 
miser — who would have recognized the giver of that splen- 
did Oriental feast, Paston Carew the millionaire? 


CHAPTER VIII. 

WHAT THE CLIHTOHS SAID. 

Pastoh Carew was a bitter pill for the Clintons to 
swallow — so bitter as to be well-nigh indigestible. His 
very existence, indeed, was the initial wrong they could not 
forgive. Now his return to Beaton Brows, his crafty pur- 
chase of Mock-Beggar over their heads, and his reputed 
wealth, bid fair to poison the whole stream of social life for 
them; and the tragic death of the old father had been so 
far useful in that it had forced them to step aside, and had 
thus given them time for the final arrangement of their 
plan of action. 

And this was their determination: They would not visit 


MILLIOJs-AIRE AKD MISER. 63 

this undesirable revenant with his insolent wealth and dis- 
creditable origin. Let who would bow down before the 
brazen image, they would hold the purer faith and main- 
tain the proud exclusiveness of blood and breeding. They 
and theirs would have none of him. Whatever his mag- 
nificence and the stirring of the stagnant waters produced 
thereby, they would stand aloof, and they would repudiate 
him. Their acquaintance should be the unattainable of his 
desire; and Clinton Hall, which had been his birthplace 
and his home, should be shut against him as rigorously as 
heaven against an unbeliever. 

So this was the problem for which time was to find the 
solution. Paston Carew had vowed that he would humble 
the Clintons, bring them to their knees, and set his foot on 
their necks: and the Clintons had vowed that they would 
ignore Paston Carew, by the right of their birth nullify the 
power of his wealth, and by their example shame the best 
people into imitation. 

But do what they would, they could not escape from 
him. He was in the air, he and his daughter, a^ld could 
no more be exorcised than a couple of cholera germs float- 
ing unseen in the atmosphere. The talk was all of him; 
of his magnificence, his meanness, his manners, his princi- 
jDles, his daughter and her future marriage — already on the 
carpet of discussion and surmise. Would she land Lord 
Masdew? He was a catch for a duke^s daughter, not to 
speak of Paston Carew^s! Or would she have to decline on 
a lower level, and be contented with a city man who would 
join his dirty money-bags to her father’s ill-gotten gains? 
or with a broken-down old roue who would sell his trump- 
ery title for so much gold, as Sir James Dayman had sold 
his for so much beauty? Speculations were rife; bets were 
laid in the market-place; and the talk eddied even to the 
aristocratic back-waters of Clinton Hall, where it was so 
much gall and wormwood to the family. 

Yet their pride forbade them to show displeasure even_ 
when Mock-Beggar, that sorest of all the sore points, was 
touched on. They were jealous of the improvements, and 
they resented the profanation of changes wrought where 
they had lived and been content. What had done for them 
was not good enough for this base-born — this beggar set 
on horseback! They were indignant, sore, scornful all 
round; and when that wonderful ball came to give the 


64 


PASTON CAEEW, 


eddy an extra spin, the Clinton family was a multiple kind 
of Prometheus, and the vulture gnawing at their vitals 
knew no rest. 

“ I look on it as a national disgrace/^ said Lady Jane, 
French Clinton ^s wife. ‘‘ I know nothing more iniquitous 
in modern society. It is a sign of the degradation to which 
we have fallen. What can we expect but universal atheism 
and revolution when such a man as this is received by the 
best people in the place where he was born, and where, 
therefore, every one knows all about him! If he had gone 
to, a strange neighborhood, that would have been different; 
but here, at Beaton Brows, where there are people yet 
living who remember the whole thing! — what an insult to 
'US ! what a satire on our civilization!^^ 

Lady Jane was a woman of large utterances, delivered 
in a level voice and a deliberate manner which somehow 
reminded one of the expression ‘ ‘ chilled shot. 

‘‘I said all this in the beginning to Mr. Arrol,^^ said 
Elsie, who was the first to carry to the Hall an account of 
the famous with its Oriental splendor and fairy-like 

display. But he did not take my view. He said it 
w'ould be impossible to ignore these people now that they 
liad come among us, and when there w^as nothing against 
Mr. Carew but his unfortunate birth. ’ 

“ What more did he want, may I ask?’^ said Lady Jane, 
coldly. 

“ Well, you see, he says that is not Mr. Carew^s own 
fault exactly,'^ said Mrs. Arrol. 

“ The Bible tells us that when the fathers have eaten 
sour grapes, the children's teeth shall be set on edge,'^ re- 
turned Lady Jane. 

“ That is a little hard on the children, is it not?^^ de- 
manded Elsie, in her most innocent manner — a manner 
which left you in doubt whether she was slightly idiotic or 
secretly sarcastic. People generally chose to believe the 
former. 

‘‘ It is not for us to question the wisdom of God," said 
Lady Jane. “We have to accept things as we find them. 
And I say again, it is flying in the face of Providence to 
receive this man as if he were a well-born and respectable 
member of society. 

. “Mr. Arrol does not doubt his respectability," said 
Elsie, who, now that she had committed herself to the ac- 


3IILLI0NAIRE AND MISER. 


65 


'quaintance, felt bound to uphold its dignity. “ And of 
course he has means of knowing things which other people 
■hav^enot.^^ 

“ No doubt Mr. Arrol has his reasons,” said Lady Jane, 
lifting her upper lip just enough to show the sharp -white 
pointed tooth which was her survival of the archaic tusk. 

^Business men have a different code from — she was 
going to say gentlemen, but she checked herself in time. 
The bank held sundry documents which compelled respect 
oven from Lady J ane. 

Elsie Arrol was neither sharp-witted nor sensitive. She 
did not supply the missing noun. She merely said : 

Different from people who do not understand business? 
Yes, I suppose they have. That is what my husband al- 
ways says. ' And then you see. Lady Jane, how difficult it 
would be for any of us to stand out. Even Mr. Standish 
says we can not afford to lose Mock-Beggar, and you know 
how good and sincere he is — how entirely superior to the 
nineteenth century all through 

“ For all that, he prefers the cheap popularity of going 
with the majority to the nobler isolation of doing what is 
right, said Lady Jano. 

Elsie ArroEs round face flushed with vexation. She 
could bear my lady to gibe her husband, but not her friend. 

Mr. Standish is a man whose decision commands re- 
spect,” she said boldly, and, as Mr. Arrol says, we may 
regret that Mr. Carew has come here and taken Mock-Beg- 
gar and everything, but he is quite harmless, and we must 
make the best of him; and Miss Carew is very handsome 
and very harmless too. So there we are, and we can not 
help ourselves. 

“ You are a dutiful wife, I see,” said Lady Jane. 

‘^A woman^s honor is in her submission,” said Elsie 
Arrol, who knew that my lady had the whip-hand here at 
Clinton Hall, and was the navigating captain where French 
'Clinton was only the figure-head on board. 

She was not afraid of Lady Jane. These insensitive little 
women who are pleased with themselves, and are affiliated 
to some out-of-the-way sect, never are afraid of any one be- 
yond their own hierophants and prophets; and as Lady 
Jane was Philistine to her backbone, Elsie felt so far her 
superior. Hence they rarely met without crossing swords 
©n one matter if not another; and to Elsie, Lady Jane 

3 


66 


PASTON CAKEW, 


was a termagant, and to Lady Janet, Elsie Arrol was a 
spitfire. 

Would the subject of this wretched ball never be ex- 
hausted? Were they all in a conspiracy to annoy Lady Jane- 
with details she did not wish to hear? Yet how could she 
refuse to hsten? Well-bred folks are bound by their own 
code, and noblesse oblige, even when the vulture is pecking 
at your liver. Blood may be blue, lips thin, the will of 
iron, but the social law is stronger than the individual. 
Wherefore, my Lady Jane had to sit and listen to stories 
about the Oarews, which, at first revolting, soon grew to 
have a horrible fascination for her, ever expecting as she 
did to come on the traces of some abomination which should 
satisfy even her hate. ‘That hate was like a voiceless snake 
creeping stealthily through the grass on the traces of its 
foe. It never slept, it never paused — and never would — till 
it had struck its fangs into the heart of the creature fol- 
lowed. ' 

When Mrs. Ellacombe, hoping to waken up what of the 
mother she had in her, spoke of Yetta’s sweetness and gen- 
tleness, her want of female companionship, of careful 
chaperonage — and yet see how well she was doing, un- 
guided! — Lady Jane put on her hardest expression — the ex- 
pression which made her still handsome if sharp-featured 
face as stony as a Medusa, and refused to be interested “ in 
a girl who was not even a social quadroon — who was but a 
half-caste in the way of legitimacy — beyond saying that 
her “ state of isolation was positively indelicate and almost 
immoral. 

Who is to look after her, as a good girl should bo 
looked after?^^ she asked, carping at circumstance after the- 
fashion of her kind. ‘‘ A maid can not give her lessons on 
conduct, or even tell her that her dress is too low. What 
can she be, given up only to creatures no better than her 
own grandmother? She must of necessity be bad; and no 
arguments can convince me to the contrary/^ 

But when Mr. Ellacombe deplored the new departure of 
luxury and show taken in that famous ball, she joined hands 
with him eagerly, and said he was perfectly right — it was a 
shameful waste, and only a parvenu like that dreadful man 
could have been guilty of it. 

When Eitz-George Standish plaintively confessed that he 
would have preferred something with more ethereal purpose 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


67 


R,nd artistic suggestiveness, she joined hands with him too, 
and instead of her usual liolite sneer endorsed his criticism 
as quite a right-minded and valiant opinion. But when he 
afterward, raising his eyes to the ceiling, touched on the 
pearly purity, the alabaster transparency of Miss Care w, she 
snapped at him viciously, and disputed the pearl and the 
alabaster so acrimoniously as not to leave a trace of either. 
The homely vein running through her own four daughters, 
of whom not one was really pretty and some were really 
plain, was a very blue-bottle in my lady^s ointment. How 
she — a beautiful woman in her day — and French, a hand- 
some man, could have produced four such unbeautiful little 
maidens, after having given to the world Maurice, who was 
like a modernized Ajax, and Lanfrey, who was like St. 
John, was a fault in heredity she had not enough science to 
explain nor enough patience to accept. But her daughters 
being so undeniably homely, she felt bound by all the laws 
of maternal loyalty to deny the supremacy of other girls — 
thinking that to pull down their pretensions raised those of 
her own by so much. 

As for Mr. ArroFs common-sense way of looking at the 
thing, without sentiment or prejudice, she held it in horror. 
This Laodicean manner of judging life was a sin, accord- 
ing to her, and would bring its own punishment with it. 
IVas there no such thing as principle left in the world? she 
asked, with her cold and concentrated ire, like fire in the 
heart of an ic^eberg. Were they simply slaves of the lamp 
and the ring — creatures to be commanded by him who had 
most money? 

“ Not commanded. Lady Jane,^^’said Mr. Arrol, pleas- 
antly. “ But we must confess that money is a power in 
this nineteenth century which none of us can afford to 
idespise. Perhaps it is a pity — my wife and her fidus A eludes 
Standish would say it was— that we should have gone past 
so many old-world ideas, when a man^s moral worth was 
his warrant, and his birth equivalent to place and power. 
But here we are, you see; and what can we make of it! 
We have to go with the times. 

And receive an unmarried servant- woman ^s son among 
us as our equal ?^^ asked Lady Jane. 

‘‘ Tut! what does a maiFs inherited station or even his 
illegitimacy signify when he has the education of a gentle- 
man and the revenues of a prince?^ ^ the banker answered, 


68 


PASTOl^ CAKEW. 


in his off-hand way. ‘‘The housekeeper and poor old 
Maurice Clinton have both gone to kingdom come — at 
least I suppose she has by now — it is time she had; and 
what they were or did does not affect Mr. Carew. It is 
what the man is, not what his forebears were, which makes- 
the vital question; and Paston Carew is as good as any one 
else, and in view of his money and his daughter — think, 
the catch that girl will be with her money! — vastly better 
than many.-’^ 

“ You are free to act as you think best, of course,^ ^ said 
Lady Jane, coldly. “ We on our side must also act as we 
think best. And for my own part I refuse to know this 
man. And Mr. Clinton feels with me. 

“ Jjet the best win,^^ said Mr. Arrol, cheerily. “ In a 
free land each man must, do as he pleases.'’"’ 

Nevertheless those bonds held byJhe bank made the free- 
dom of the Clintons somewhat problematical, should Mr. 
Arrol choose to turn the screw. 

Not much had been spent on the Hall in the late owner^s,, 
this poor dead Humphreys’s time. His money had been, 
dedicated to his stud and the race-course — where he had 
dropped more than he had gathered — while his house had 
gone bare and his estate had been drained — which was 
stopping up at the spigot and pouring out at the bung-hole, 
as well as killing the goose with the golden eggs unlaid. 
\¥hen he had taken possession after his cousin^ s death he 
had certainly renewed a few necessary things — such as cur- 
tains and chintzes, etc. ; but since then nothing had been 
done, and the Hall was stately shabbiness incarnate. Every- 
thing was out of date, and the youngest of the fashions was 
full twenty-five years old. The paneled walls with flying 
Cupids and huge bouquets of impossible flo-wers; the tar- 
nished gilding of florid scroll-work to frame these abomina- 
tions; the carpet of gigantic roses and portentous fronds of 
fern; the chintz of Gargantuan tulips — all were of the 
basest style, and all wanted renewing for the sake of 
decency and cleanliness. Hitherto, however, the shabbi- 
ness of the Hall had been as the sign of their supremacy to- 
the Clintons. Other little moths might fly up to the 
modern candle, paper their walls with pomegranates, fill 
their rooms with art furniture, own themselves of the day 
and the hour without a foot in the venerable past. But the 
Clintons were of another clay. They could afford to be 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


69 > 


rococo; for to be rococo with them was to be genealogical, 
hereditary, and confessing links between the present and 
the past. Now things wera changed. The renovation of 
Mock-Beggar, for two generations their own annex, was the 
glove thrown down to them. They must take it up and 
fight out the quarrel to the end. 

The Clinton energy, which had in many instances hurried 
on the men of the family to brave or wild, great or only 
rash deeds, in their youth, was a matter of temperament. 
Being thus merely conditional, it passed into indolence with, 
age. Only physical, not mental, it quieted with the pas- 
sions and faded with the strength; and he who in his youth 
could not be held by cart- ropes, in his old age could not be 
stirred by dynamite. This energy was just at the ebb with 
French, and Lady Jane knew it. She knew that she must 
strike now if at all. She did not confess even to her hus- 
band the jealous pain that gnawed her heart when she heard 
of all that had been done at Mock-Beggar. Neither did he 
confess to her. They only agreed together that they must 
do something to the Hall— they must renew it, and go into 
the matter thoroughly. The furniture, the frontage, the. 
garden, the houses — all had to be overhauled. They must 
restore the orchid -house and pinery made by old Maurice; 
and they must grow early strawberries and peaches. No 
place of pretensions equal to theirs was without these things. 
Why, even the Ellacombes grew orchids, and the HarcourtS' 
had strawberries on the first of May! They — the first 
family here — they, the Chntons — must move with the 
times, and not allow themselves to be distanced. Things 
were 6hanged from what they used to be — more the pity! — 
but no man could put back the hands of time, and it was a 
question of self-preservation and holding on. 

‘‘And then this hideous furniture!'^ said Lady Jane, 
plucking at a faded tulip as if it had been a hedgehog be- 
neath her arm. “ Your father had no taste, poor dear 
man; and things are as bad as in old Maurice ^s time. Some- 
thing must be done, French. Our honor demands it. "" 

“ Yes," said French; “ I see.^^ 

But neither confessed that it was the foul hag Invidia, 
sitting on their necks like the toad which squatted at Eve^s 
ear, who inspired them with these thoughts, and made- 
them hold their honor to be involved in the squandering of 
money they could not afford, that they might vie with a. 


■70 


PASTON CAKEW, 


richer man — their natural foe. The thing had to be done. 
Human nature was too strong for reason, and flesh and 
blood carried it over caution. French Clinton plunged 
headlong into the abyss, and orders went forth like so many 
■dragons’ teeth sown by a financial Cadmus. Everything 
was to be done thoroughly and everything at once; and the 
workmen who had whistled after Paston cheered French 
Clinton to the echo, and said, ‘‘ Here, if you like, is a gen- 
tleman who knows his place and our rights!” 

There was no paring of the edges at the hall — no scrap- 
ing of the gilt from the gingerbread. Everything was solid, 
rich, sufficient, with good percentages for the middlemen, 
^ind a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work to all besides. 
It was jubilee-time to the losers by Paston’s hard fist, and 
:a solatium of full efficiency; and the Clintons recovered at 
& bound the leeway they had lost when the rich Indian 
nabob first came to take the wind out of ^ their sails to fill 
his own. But they never reflected that they were paying 
for their enemy’s short-comings, and that extras were heaped 
on their bills because righteous charges had been docked 
off his. 

Paston smiled grimly when he heard it all. He knew 
.about those bonds lodged at the bank, as well as about the 
rents and the depreciation of the land. 

They can not do it,” he said to himself. They are 
bound to go to the bank; and I will have gone before 
them.” 

Meanwhile he waited. He could afford to wait. The 
Clintons had sworn to ruin him, and he had sworn to de- 
stroy them. Which of the two would fulfill his vow re- 
mained as yet undeeided. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE THIK EKD OF THE WEDGE. 

Mrs. Gaysworthy and her daughter Octavia were in 
their own way features in the society of Beaton Brows. 
People whose general health was superb, they were subject 
to spasmodic attacks of obscure bronchitis which obliged 
them to let their pretty little place. Laburnum Lodge, and 
go off for the winter to Paris or Rome, Berlin or Florence, 
where they broke new ground, saw men and things, lived 


MILLIOKAIRE AND MISER. 


71 


cheaply, saved money, and, according to their own account, 
had innumerable offers of marriage from men in high posi- 
tion and of shining fortunes — offers refused at the eleventh 
hour because mamma would not leave her daughter, or the- 
daughter would not leave mamma. To all of wdiich stories 
Beaton Brows answered in the words of Mr. Burchell, when 
Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs talked of Sir 
Tomkyn, and Lady Blarney answered back with Jernigan. 
These two ladies were not adventuresses, inasmuch as their 
inherited condition was beyond dispute. Mrs. Gays worthy 
was the daughter of a minor magnate wLo had drunk him- 
self to death, and the widow of a monkey-faced admiral 
who had never learned to spell. Hence they were beyond 
the shafts of the skeptical at home, if not beyond the sneers 
of the censorious. But also, those who met them abroad, 
where their credentials were only self-indorsed, were not to' 
be condemned if they classed them among the doubtful, 
and gave mother and daughter a wide berth. 

Traveled women of the world as they were, they naturally 
leaned to the adoption of social novelties. For nothing is 
assumed to break down the stone walls of prejudice, or to- 
enrich the sterile sympathies, so much as a few months^ 
sojourn among foreign peoples, whose language you only 
half understand, and with whom, in their home or political 
life, you never come in contact. This is analogous with: 
The habit some have of stocking their libraxies with books 
they never read; as if knowledge oozed out through the- 
covers, and looking at the titles gave you the contents. 
Acting, then, on this catholicity of acceptance Mr. and 
Mrs. Gaysworthy held out the right hand of fellowship ta 
the Carews, almost * oppressive in its friendliness, after the 
first bitter little word at Mrs. ArroFs had satisfied the senti- 
ment of caution. If tht? mantle they threw round them 
was rather thin against the wind and short in the quarters, 
it was the best they had; which is all that the most exact- 
ing can demand, or that la plus joliefille du monde can give. 

They would hear of no demurrers in re Paston Carew; 
and in their court the counsel for the prosecution was dis- 
barred. They made a pet of the daughter, with whom 
they leaped at a bound into terms of verbal familiarity and 
apparent intimacy; and they behaved with the most charm- 
ing deference to the father. They refused to believe any 
gossip which showed the latter in a lurid light or unpleas- 


72 


PASTOX CAREW, 


iint proportions; and they had a euphemism for every ugly 
blot imputed, They acted out to perfection the fine old 
lesson on charity; and Beaton Brows would have done well 
to have followed these two “prancing Kates/^ as Mr. 
Arrol called them, into that sublime region where all things 
are hoped and no evil is thought, and where they bore aloft 
the^tlarew flag, blazoned according to their fancy. They 
went beyond even gentle Mrs. Ellacombe in their breadth 
of Christian generosity; and Octavia one day rebuked by 
implication that loving soul by saying to her, in the man- 
ner of a reproach, how far better was the fertile warmth of 
charity than the dryness of unfriendliness — how much 
nobler the attitude of truth than that of suspicion. And 
to play censor on the score of uncharity to Mrs. Ellacombe 
was a new sensation to Octavia, and one she enjoyed. 

Their attentions set Paston thinking. What did they 
want from him? Money, of course. It was one of his fixed 
ideas that all men and women did want money from him. 
He did not believe in disinterested affection, neither from 
men nor dogs. When the former flatter you, they are 
thinking of your banker’s book or your dinners; when the 
latter lick your hand, they are asking for meat or sugar. 
Disinterested affection was a fable on a par with the fairy- 
tales of his childhood, or the gold given by Eubezahl over- 
night, which is turned to dead leaves by the morning. The 
Reference of these two ladies to his opinion, their confi- 
dences, their simplicity of ignorance when they asked hns 
advice on sound investments, lawyers’ fees, will-making, 
and legacy duties — their air of well-bred admiration, of 
feminine respect, and tender-voiced obedience — ^what did it 
all mean? As vain as the average man is, Paston was yet 
not one to be caught, like the Dokos, by a bit of looking- 
glass reflecting himself; and “ Come live with me and be 
my love,” whistled on a reed pipe from among the limed 
twigs, was no siren’s song against wliich he had to stop his 
ears with wax. He listened — gravely, courteously, with his 
best air— -to all that these veteran soldiers of fortune had to 
say, and gave them the advice he thought they wanted him 
to give. But they never got an inch nearer. They were 
just where they were when they first sat down before the 
place and invested the stronghold — which, of a truth, they 
were not the Vaubans to reduce. 

As for Yetta, the affection professed for her was not 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


73 


marvelous, seeing what a pearl of price she was. But 
here, again, might not a scantling of Gaysworthy hay be 
turned with good management under her sweet sunshine? 
To be the intermediaries of her marriage, so far as English 
women of good birth can play the part of the old Roman 
conciliatrix, would certainly eventuate in a few presents 
not to be despised by those whose margin was notoriously 
skimped, and whose gold pieces jingled in dolorous paucity. 
Even here the sky was not wholly clear, and among the 
flowers grew the weeds. 

Meanwhile Fasten noted, with those deep-set, hawk-like 
eyes of his — which he could make at will so like the eyes of 
a fish — the curious differences of tint and texture in Octa- 
via’s hair, and where the faded roots accused of artful dyes 
such lengths as were indubitably her own among the 
lustrous coils. He understood, too, all about Mrs. Gays- 
worthy ^s crimped black wig as w#ll as she herself, and 
could have given both mother and daughter lessons on the 
art of laying on delicate flesh tints and effective rings about 
the eyes. He saw through every little artifice by which 
these unconquerable warriors sought to beat off the forces- 
of old Time, and seeing this he was doubly fortified against, 
the seductions which bid so boldly for his good graces. 

He never let it be divined that he saw — that he suspected. 
He was, as has been said, the soul of grave attention — the 
very incarnation of quiet, dry, reserved courtesy. He ac- 
cepted the post of friendly adviser and general referee 
offered to him, and did not ask how it was that Mrs. Gays- 
worthy — ^just sixty years of age, and an inhabitant of Beaton 
Brows for two-thirds that time — had no one among her old 
friends to give her a word of manly counsel, but was fain 
to turn to him, the latest comer. His quiescence deceived, 
them more than their deference blinded him. Experienced 
manipulators as they were, they had not learned the differ- 
ence between smoothness and plasticity, and continually 
repeated the same blunder. 

When Mrs. Gaysworthy said with a light laugh to dear 
Babs, as she called Octavia, “ I do really think that foolish 
Paston Carewis falling in love with you, ducky,^^ the heart 
of poor dear Babs gave a bound which brought a color into 
her face brighter than that which the harems foot had left, 
as she laughed back in return: How silly you are, dar- 
ling! You think every one is in love with me!^^ — wishing,. 


74 : 


pasto:n carew. 


oh, how devoutly! that the threadbare illusion would prove 
indeed this time a solid and incontestable fact. 

Forty years of age by the parish register, and still empty- 
handed! Poor Babs! And a mother only sixty, and look- 
ing almost as young as herself, in her black crimped wig, 
well-ruddled cheeks, a waist not over twenty-three inches, 
a body as slim as a weaseFs, and boots and gloves as trim 
as if she had been a maiden in her teens! 

“ If mamma did but look older, and was more matronly 
in her manner!'" thought Octavia, in her bitter hours, 
when one of those numerous card-houses, so patiently built 
up and tenderly guarded, had newly fallen into chaos. 
There would have been more chance of a successful landing 
with a mother whose own nets had vanished into the wreck 
of the past. But what chance could a girl have when that 
mother has been prettier to begin with, and now dresses as 
youthfully as herself, is#every whit as attractive, and may 
be any day her rival? It was all very well to say, “ That 
ioolish Paston Carew is falling in love with you," between 
themselves; but if it was the other way? — if mamma only 
dangled the shell and all the while was quietly eating the 
kernel? 

To do Octavia justice, however, she hid all show of disap- 
pointment as carefully as she calked over that fine cross- 
hatching engraved by the Destroyer across her fair skin. 
She kept her griefs sacredly to herself. She knew that bit- 
ter thoughts sour the temper, and that a sour temper fur- 
rows the face. Hence she heroically banished her little 
imps one by one, and unclasped their sooty fingers when 
they tried to clutch at her heart-strings. She was persist- 
ently gay, good-humored, smiling, social, energetic, com- 
plaisant, while keeping a sharp look-out for the husband 
who never came, and stalking every likely quarry with a 
skill which deserved better success. And the only satisfac- 
tion she ever allowed herself was in uncomfortable speeches 
said in the naivest and nicest way possible, wherein she 
splashed hot water into the faces of her friends under the 
guise of pelting them with rose-leaves. 

Never committing the vulgar error of showing herself 
jealous of younger girls, Octavia Gaysworthy was the 
patroness and good fairy of the smiling generation, to 
whom she gave opportunities not always approved of by the 
parents. Especially was she wishful to be the fairy god- 


MILLIOJ^AIRE AlfD MISER. 75 

mother to Yeitta Carew. She posed as that dear mother- 
less darling^s nearest friend, and spoke of her with the 
sweetest feeling, and most sympathetic interest. Mrs. 
Gays worthy seconded her daughter, and told Yetta over 
and over again to look on Laburnam Lodge as much her 
home as Mock-Beggar itself. But Paston laid his narrow 
fingers in among those rose-colored threads, and prevented 
the close knots sought to be tied. He Avas glad that Yetta 
should be courted by the residents, but he did not affect the 
Gays worthy mantle. Noo* did the girl herself. Their 
affection embarrassed her by its very exaggeration; and she 
did not like the paint, nor the dye, nor the black lines round 
the eyelids put on with a brush broader than Nature ^s. 
But to all this gentle repulsion, both Babs and her mother 
were as blind as two fluffy brown owls, brought from the 
shade of the ivy and set in the glare of the noonday. Things 
were eminently satisfactory, according to their estimate^ 
and going as fast as was decent or desirable; and “ that 
foolish Paston Carew is falling in love with you was the 
Mesopotamia which made gM their hearts and light their 
souls. 

The season for tennis parties had long since begun, and 
the sunshine set young blood a-glowing merrily wherever 
there was a chance of an hour^s flirtation or an afternoon ■’s 
excitement. Among others,^ the Gaysworthys sent out in- 
vitations for a garden-party, where the Carews were of 
course invited with the rest. The Clintons also were asked. 
The two young men were at the Hall, and the girls had be- 
gun to go out to the more modest order of day amuse- 
ments, though Lady Jane still limited herself to morning 
calls, and French Chnton made his bricks and mortar the 
excuse for avoiding even these. Wherefore, when the in- 
vitation came from Laburnam Lodge for a garden-party, 
with “ Tennis in small type in the corner, the two young 
men and all four girls accepted it, and the last were really 
glad of the diversion. Poor dear Babs and that silly old 
mother of hers were awful fun in their vocabulary; and 
disuse, like distance, had lent its own enchantment. Be- 
sides, there had been a certain fluttering of the Clinton 
dove-cote on the question of the Carews: Would they be 
there? and if they were, what was to be the attitude? 

Strict neutrality,^ ^ said Lady Jane. 

‘‘ If the fellow presumes, give him a facer said French. 


76 


PASTOK CAEEW, 


'No one spoke of Yetfca. The main factor in the great 
sum, it belonged to the short-sightedness of the hour to ig- 
nore her altogether. 

I wonder who it is now?^^ said Maurice to liis brother, 
as they dashed along the roads in the smart American 
baggy they had set up as a perennial marvel to the ‘‘ yo- 
kels/^ ‘‘"l should think she has cashiered old Standish by 
now. She must have found him not worth powder and 
shot. 

Fitz-George Standish had of course been one of the deer 
craftily stalked by mother and daughter in times past. He 
liad sniffed the scent, and sheltered himself under Elsie 
ArroFs skirts— as we know — where at least were no limed 
twigs and no hooked burrs that could never be detached. 

‘^We shall soon see. Babs must haye some one to keep 
her hand in, poor old girl!^^ laughed Lanfrey. 

‘‘ They are a contemptible couple,^’ said Maurice, with 
unnecessary bitterness. ‘‘It is something to pay for our 
position in the place that we have to associate with such 
cattle. 

“ But they are kind-hearted if tjiey are silly, said Lan- 
frey. “ And as for their husband-hunting, they might do 
worse. 

“ And better, said Maurice. 

“ And better, echoed his brother, ' 

All the available society at Beaton Brows had assembled 
on the lawn at Laburnam Lodge when the two brothers 
drove up. Their own four sisters, in black splashed with 
white, like bald places in the stuff; pretty little Mrs. Arrol, 
done up to look like Elaine, and not higher than Oicely^s 
milking-pail; Mrs. Ellacombe, reminding one somehow of 
moonlight and soft swan^s-down, of a pearl slightly discol- 
ored by age, of a rose full-blown but not yet shattered, 
faded if you will, but still fragrant and in its own way 
beautiful; the Harcourts — ^he lisping, sarcastic, suave, pe- 
dantic, flattering and scarifying in one; and she mildly ag- 
gressive and in impartial opposition to all around ; Fitz- 
George Standish, twisted into his usual Byzantine attitude, 
.standing near Elsie Arrol, but looking wistfully toward the 
drawing-room window — watching and waiting for whom? — 
Frank Harcourt, the rector^s only son, a big bumbling 
joung fellow with lint-white hair, a skin that tanned red. 


MILLIOKAIEE AND MISER. 


77 


and as awkward as a mastiif pnppy or nestling cuckoo; 
other boys and girls and young married couples in smart 
tennis costumes, and of no value to our story — all were 
there; while Lady Dayman, sitting near her miserable lit- 
tle marital atomy, made eyes over the top of her fan to the 
commandant, whose hatchet-faced wife — the mother of 
thousands, as she was familiarly called in the regiment — 
looked on at a distance, with the feeling of one who knows 
that she is booked for a new attack ,of an old disease. 

Then came in among the rest the two young Clintons, to 
be received with supreme honor as belonged to their state 
■and long seclusion. Presently there drove along the lane, 
from which the garden was separated by a low laurestine 
hedge, the Carew phaeton — dark blue and silver, but not 
wholly fresh— with its pair of thoroughbreds which had 
^een their best days — the whole turn-out in perfectly good 
taste, but not bearing close looking into; and in a few mo- 
ments Paston Carew and his daughter came through the 
open window of the drawing-room, and so by the veranda 
on to the lawn. 

The two young men turned to look at the new-comers — 
Maurice with patent scorn; Lanfrey with less hostility but 
with no friendliness. In his turn Paston looked full at 
them with that dull fishy stare which made his dark face as 
inscrutable as that of the Sphinx, while Yetta glanced at 
them with the natural curiosity of a girl for the first time 
brought into personal contact with the two young notabil- 
ities of the neighborJiood — a glance which expressed inter- 
est, shyness, yet no acknowledged cause for fear — just as 
any girl would naturally feel. 

Brothers as they were, these two young men were intrin- 
sically different, in spite of that family likeness which 
.sometimes accentuates rather than reconciles differences. 
Maurice, the elder, but little above the average height, 
olean-hmbed and firmly knit, was one of those light weights 
whose nerves are of steel and whose muscles are iron- 
bound. His eyes were of that cold light blue which grows 
dark with passion, but never soft with love. His thin- 
lipped mouth, compressed, cruel, and sensual as well, was, 
happily for him, concealed by a drooping golden mustache,., 
beneath which his white and pointed teeth glistened like 
pearls; his chin was resolute and well formed; his hands 
:and feet were as small as an Italian^’s, He had the erect 


78 


PASTON" CAREW, 


carriage of a military man— was well set up, and had evi- _ 
dently been well handled. In character he was sarcastic, 
insolent, and haughty. He was Clinton of Clinton Hall — 
the elder son and heir-apparent; and outside the barrack- 
yard and his superior officers he owned no man as his 
master, and but few as his equals. He was one whose 
whole bearing suggested war, when it did not compel sub- 
mission. Handsome, well-born, resolute, self-confident, he 
was his own law-giver, and sought to be the ruler over 
others; and those who refused his autocracy had to fight it 
out with him — generally to their own discomfiture. Save 
his own immediate family it is doubtful if one human being 
really loved him. Even the women who were taken by his 
fine bearing and handsome face were repelled by his pride 
and chilled by his selfishness; for the love he offered was 
but selfishness disguised by passion, and the love he asked 
for was eminently sacrifice. 

Lanfrey was neither so fair nor so smart a man as his 
brother. He was taller and less closely knit, with a more 
mobile face, a franker and a gentler manner. The cold 
light blue of his brother's eyes was changed in his to a 
darker gray, which love made tender, and in which thought 
shone as with an inner light; his lips had more generous 
curves, were redder in color and fuller in form; his skin 
was of a darker tint, while his face was paler, and his hands 
and feet were larger, though as well formed. His brother s 
short-cropped golden hair, which in spite of the regulation 
shears curled like a Greek athlete^ s about his head, was 
warmed in Lanfrey ^s to the true nut-brown where the gold 
has deepened into russet. Also, instead of being of the^ 
close-ringed kind, it was loose and flowing — waved, not 
curled. What was pride and the consciousness of personal 
supremacy in the one, seemed to be in the other self-re- 
spect and the consciousness of moral dignity. What was 
individual masterfulness in Maurice, was active energy of a 
larger kind in Lanfrey; where the one would dominate, the 
other sought to influence; where the one was the hardest 
and most rigid of the school which thinks all human life 
'.should be made to crystallize in its several classes, and the 
* lower should be denied the power of developing into the 
higher, the other believed in the plasticity and molding 
power of social forces, and would have nothing unalterable 
save the law of duty and the right. But the two were. 


MILLIONAIEE AND MISER. ' 79 

Clintons with all their divergence; and the pride of the 
Clintons wa^ j^roverbial in the country. 

Such as they were, they watched with a strange feeling of 
foregone hostility the new possessor of Mock-Beggar and 
his daughter as they came through the shadow of the veran- 
<da into the full sunshine of the lawn. That sunshine 
showed the furrowed, lean, and sphinx-like face of Paston, 
set like a flint and turned on them like a mask — a face 
which at once challenged and defied; and then it showed 
the loveliness which itself made sunshine to those who 
looked, which seemed to fill the air with all those subtle 
fancies that create poetry and express themselves in song. 
Both brothers felt as men would who saw a goddess stand 
clear from the trees where they had thought to chase a 
satyr — who, brushing aside what looked like a withered leaf 
caught in their hands a radiant butterfly. Her beauty sent 
the blood up into the face of Maurice in one deep flush, 
which made him angry with himself to think that he could 
be so moved by Paston Oarew^s daughter. Over Lanfrey 
came a sudden spasm of regret to think that they and this 
girl should be natural foes — never to meet in friendship, 
never to be aught but hostile — they and this girl, who 
brought with her the sense of poetry and music, and was 
^s a goddess stepping out from the shadow into the sunshine. 

Then Octavia, who liked to do things her own way, after 
having kissed Yetta on both cheeks effusively, turning to 
the young men, said, airily: 

Captain Clinton, let me present you to Miss Carew. 
Mr. Lanfrey, this is Miss Carew, our new darling. Mr. 
Carew perhaps you know already, as he took Mock-Beggar 
of your father. ^ ^ 

The three men looked at one another — Paston, without 
the change of a feature, of a line; Maurice, with a rush of 
scorn that almost broke the bounds; Lanfrey, with a re- 
pugnance which he had to look at Yetta to conquer. It 
was the salute with bared weapons before the fight — the 
measuring of each other by eye of the wrestlers who have, 
as the alternative of victory, ignominy and death. But the 
strange bit of irony that it was! This, the most important 
moment in the preparations for the future — this setting of 
the lists and introduction of the combatants — to have been 
brought about by the commonest and most vulgar of all 
who could have set their hands thereto? It is not only in 


80 


PASTON CABEW. 


nature that the roots of the fairest flowers are hound down 
with stones or buried in filth — that the most momentous^ 
results come about by the most insignificant agencies. His« 
tory repeats the same law. In each many’s life lies the grain 
of mnstard-seed; and the noblest are forever acted on and. 
manipulated by the basest. The poisoned arrow of a savage 
destroys the finest product of civilization; and this personal 
introduction to the Clintons of PastonCarew and Yetta^ by 
the mediumship of Octavia Gaysworthy^ was an illustration 
of the law which gives influence to the mean and power to 
the weak. 


CHAPTER X. 

ACBOSS THE NETS, 

The introduction effected and her elf-arrow-shot, Octa- 
via said, briskly: 

Now let us go to the nets. Mr. Lanfrey, you and I 
will play against your brother and Miss Carew. We shall 
be beaten into fits, for the child plays like an angel, as she 
does everything, and I am only a clumsy little imp, as you 
know. But I should like to play in the first set you have 
with our new darling — if you will let me,^^ she ^ded, in 
the coaxing accent which was one of her weapons of seduc- 
tion. Or shall I give you Amy Shillbeer, who is our 
.champion player, and more worthy of you? Perhaps you 
ought to have Amy and not me. 

‘‘No, no. Miss Gaysworthy, I will have you and no one 
else,'’^ said Lanfrey, good-naturedly. 

“ Will that suit you, dearie?^^ asked Octavia of Yetta,. 
“ For of course your pleasure is to be thought of first of 
all. Will you let me play with Mr. Lanfrey against you? 
I should so much like it!’^ 

“ Why, yes, of course. Miss Gaysworthy! Why not?’^ 
answered Yetta, embarrassed by being made the prize of the 
party, but all the same, looking at this pink and white 
Octavia and the two young men with her frank smile — of 
which she did not know the value. 

Though she was ignorant of all cause for hostility, she 
was conscious that her father did not specially like the 
Clintons. But that was no reason why she should not be 
frank and debonair now that she had met them — why she 


MILLIOifAlRE AKD MISER. 


81 


should not- include them in her smile — thinking to herself, 
as she took in Lanfrey by the way : “ How like that pho- 
tograph of the young St. John the Baptist from Venice 
which Miss Price has in her drawing-room?^^ — and of 
Maurice: ‘‘ What a handsome man, but what a disagreea- 
ble expression 

YetWs smile was one of those, so rare on English faces, 
which speak as music speaks. From lips to eyes it stole 
like the flush of dawn from sky to earth, and seemed to 
make her whole face eloquent — as if she had sung the open- 
ing words of some glad hymn. Beautiful as she was in re- 
pose, when she smiled she was divine; and the transforma- 
tion from the tender seriousness that touched on sadness,, 
which was the normal characteristic of that repose, to the 
wonderful radiance of this smile, was as complete as the 
sudden lighting up of a leafy garden sunk in the quiet 
shadows of the evening. 

It made Maurice draw a deep breath as he said to him- 
self: I would get that girl but for her cursed father;” 

but for the moment it checked Lanfrey' s breathing alto- 
gether. And then, with a sudden bounding of his heart,, 
and a strange feeling of power and prevision of peace, he 
registered a vow that he would do what he could to heal the 
breach between their houses, and make his parents forgive 
the father that they might receive the daughter. It was a' 
sacriflce of pride for her sake — the child of Paston Carew 
as she was; but she was too good to be branded by inherited 
hate — she was too lovely, too holy, to be included in the 
sentence of ostracism recorded against her house. That 
sentence must be reversed, and the Bill of Indemnity must 
be passed which should bury all the past in oblivion. She 
was Paston Carew's daughter, certainly — but she was her- 
self as well; and the glory of that selfhood had wiped away 
the stain of her parentage. And for a Clinton to regard 
the person as superior to the circumstance was a triumph 
of liberalism as strange as it was fine. 

Captain Clinton, angry with himself for that sudden flush 
which still burned on his face, and remembering the father 
more than the smile, turning to Octavia, said, with doubt- 
ful pleasantry: 

‘‘ What have I done. Miss Gaysworthy, that you should 
discard me for Lanfrey's benefit? You and I have always 
been such good friends — why am I cut out?" 


82 


PASTON CAREW, 


‘‘ 0h!^^ said Babs, in her innocent way, '‘you are the 
eldest son, you know, and so have the first right to the best 
things. Mr. Lanfrey has to put up with the inferior — and 
that’s me— till his turn comes.” 

“ Rather a strait into which to put a man’s gallantry — is 
it not. Miss Carew?” asked Maurice, turning to Yetta — 
his pleasantry still doubtful, and his admiration dashed by 
a certain kind of insolence — not specially reassuring to a 
girl on a first introduction. If I am to have the privilege 
of the eldest, why may I not have you?” he continued, 
banteringly, to Octavia. Why should my young brother 
he promoted over my head?” 

“ You silly boy, as if I did not know!” laughed Octavia. 

But she was pleased for all her deprecation. 

“ But would you rather play with Miss Gaysworthy?” 
masked Yetta, seriously, hoping he would say " Yes.” 

‘‘ I can only say how happy could I be with either!” re- 
turned Maurice. 

And I, that you are a naughty flatterer,” cried Octavia. 

Who that has a pearl cares for — ” 

A diamond,” interrupted Maurice. 

And Octavia laughed again, and made a feint to strike 
the young man’s arm with her racket, repeating that he 
yWas naughty and a flatterer. 

Maurice Clinton played tennis to perfection. He did to 
perfection all things requiring a quick eye and a steady 
hand; and from shooting to billiards, from golf to whist, 
and from polo to waltzing, he was what people call 

crack ” — and he knew it. How it is human nature for 
the one sex to admire perfection in the other. But in spite 
of that perfection Yetta had never longed so much for a 
set to be finished as now. Moreover, Captain Clinton was 
not a pleasant partner, though so good a player. He took 
her balls, ignored her play, made her feel of no kind of 
importance in the game, and of no hel23 to the victory that 
was a foregone conclusion. For though Lanfrey played 
boldly and strongly, he was not, like his brother, up in the 
" dodges ” which perplex and fluster an antagonist, but 
won his game by more straightforward and manly work. 
As for Babs, she pranced and flounced, floundered and 
missed, laughing very loudly, showing her pretty feet and 
well-turned ankles very clearly, but failing to take or de- 
liver her balls with anything approaching to precision. 


MILLIOKAIEE A2sD illSER. 


83 


T^ennis was to her an occasion for smart dresses • 
ous flirting: to the game, qua game, she was as 
as her own barrel-built pony, apd in it very nearly as 
cient. 

This set attracted more than ordinary attention. Though 
Miss Gaysworthy was such a bungler, Yetta played mag- 
nificently when she had a chance; Maurice with the ease of 
confident success; Lanfrey as a man who puts his heart 
into all he does. But more than the mere play, the juxta- 
position interested the by-standers. This first public meet- 
ing of the hereditary foes excited curiosity to its highest 
point; and whispers went round from lip to lip as now 
society watched the daughter playing with her father^s un- 
acknowledged kinsman, and now watched that father him- 
self. His hat drawn low over his eyes — his fishy eyes as 
lusterless as if filmed — his face impassive, stony, expres- 
sionless — they might as well have watched a statue or a 
corpse for anything they could read here. Not the keen- 
est-sighted among them all detected in him pride or pleas- 
ure; the consciousness of success at the least begun; the 
determination to carry on the war further and deeper into 
the enemy^s country; the resolution to win — all of which 
possessed him at this moment with a force as mighty as 
Love. He sat there like a statue — like a mummy; domi- 
nating his very blood — ’the very pulses of his heart— so that 
he should show the watching world nothing save the dead 
blank he affected. But all the wliile he was burning with 
the glad fever of the man who has accomplished so far of 
his desire. It was the thin end of the wedge in good truth; 
and the driving home had to come. 

When the set was finished, Yetta went to her father, sit- 
ting thus sphinx-like and silent among the honorable an- 
cients. 

You have played creditably, he said, in his cold, dry 

way. 

If he had felt any enthusiasm it would have been suffi- 
ciently damped by the reflection that such violent exercise 
must surely wear out her dress before its time. But in any 
case it was not his way to indulge in hyperbole before 
strangers. 

‘‘ Like an angel, as you are!^^ cried Babs, who did. 

Fitz-George S^tandish, twdsted mosaically in the angle of 


84 


PASTON CAREW, 


the lortjst seat, looked pale and forlorn. His slow and red- 
rinmed eyes were fixed on Yetta with a hopeless look that 
added the last element of ridicule to his contorted attitude. 
He admired Miss Oarew, and he hated tennis. He had 
never before seen any one who realized his ideal ^>f an early 
Christian martyr, or, better still, of a half mythical and 
wholly fascinating saint. She was Saint Agnes, as simple 
and as docile as her lamb ; Saint Cecilia, whose soul was the 
soul of melody, and whose being was the substance of song; 
Saint Theresa, seeing the Divine and becoming like unto 
her Lord by the intimate sympathy of holy passion; Saint 
Agatha, rejecting the world and all its lusts in the person 
of her pagan lover. Whatever there was of sweet and 
holy, of pure and elevated in humanity, this daughter of an 
ignoble father embodied and represented. And here she 
was — playing tennis with Octavia Gaysworthy — that most 
ungraceful of all pastimes with that most odious of all 
women! She, whose every movement ought to be stately, 
rhythmical, harmonious — whose sole occupations should be 
making soft music on the virginals in her own chamber, or 
slow pacing of the garden walk between rows of lilies, or 
tracing, in costly silks of sad hues and obscure tones, the 
delicate fancies of painters to whom sunflowers were as 
sacred emblems and peacocks^ feathers as holy symbols — 
she, this exquisite embodiment of half mythic sanctity, 
making herself hot and flushed by jumping after a ball! 
Small wonder that Fitz-George Standish twisted himself 
oven more mosaically than before, as he bent his clasped 
hands downward from the wrist, resting one elbow on his 
sharply crossed knee and gazing at Yetta Carew, with grief 
burdened with reproach swimming within his red-lidded 
eyes. 

Do you like tennis, Miss Carew?’^ he asked, in a hol- 
low voice, emphasizing the verb. 

“ When the court is good and the game is well played, 
she answered. “ Do you like it, Mr. Standish?^^ 

“ I!^^ He shuddered. It was not a pretense. He did 
really shudder, as if he had been touched by something 
creeping and slimy, or something stinging and pricking. 

I think it positively odious,’^ he then said, in his heavy, 
slow, monotonous way. “Jf the nineteenth century had 
^iven birth to no other monstrosity than this violent and 
ungraceful game, it would have written its condemnation 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


85 


In the annals of all time. I like tennis? You might as 
Av^ell ask if I liked bull-baiting or waltzing!^'' 

Yetta looked at the owner of Five Oaks with more sur- 
prise than good breeding warrants. The sentiment was so 
strong, and the manner of utterance so tepid, she scarcely 
Imew how to take it, or what she ought to say. 

‘‘You must be very unhappy at a tennis-party,^^ she 
stumbled out as the best thing that came to her. 

And Fitz-Oeorge Standish, looking into the illimitable 
space before him, answered, mournfully, “ I am. 

“ Then why do you come?-’"’ asked Yetta, still more per- 
plexed. 

“ Martyrdom is not of one kind only, was his enigmatic 
reply. “ We do what we ought, not' what we would. 
True knighthood imposes its own duties. 

“ But how is this a duty?^^ asked the young saint, who 
was not conscious of her own aureole. 

“ My position, replied Fitz-George Standish, still look- 
ing into space. 

“ That is just why you should not,’^ said Yetta. “ If 
you tliink tennis or anything else wrong, or even only un- 
desirable, 3mu should stand out, and not give it the weight 
of your name and influence. 

Fitz-George looked at her, he thought, as Dante might 
have looked at Beatrice. 

“ This whole-souledness is what I should have expected 
from you,^^ he said. “ Would that it were more general 

“ Is that fool a man or a talking ape?^^ thought Paston 
to himself as he listened to the conversation, while seeming 
to be looking at nothing, and taking note of nothing. 

“ We ought to form a holy league among ourselves, we 
who believe in a secret divinity not recognized by society, 
said Elsie Arrol, who had strolled up to her chosen knight 
thus fantastically knotted into a four-stranded living braid, 
while he gazed at Yetta Carew and thought himself like 
Dante contemplating Beatrice. 

“ A divine Primrose League said Fitz-George, approv- 
ingly. “ Would you be one of us. Miss Carew 

Yetta laughed. “ And give up waltzing and tennis? I 
am afraid I am not fit to be one of you,^^ she said, cheer- 
fully. 

“ Oh!^’ said Elsie Arrol, making a disdainful little 
mouth. “ You have to be converted yet, I see!^^ 


8G PASTOR- CAKEW^ 

‘‘ Converted to what, Mrs. Arrol?^^ asked Paston, slow- 
ly. “ To the Primrose League, or the Salvation Army?^^ 
To my form of the Salvation Army/'’ answered Elsie, 
tartly. “ To the religion of beauty and the holiness of 
aestheticism. 

“ Ah, I see. 'Now I understand, said Paston. 

“ And I trust you approve,'’^ put in Fitz-George. 

You are your own most conclusive advocate, replied 
the owner of Mock-Beggar, with a courteoua^air, and a still 
denser film across his eyes. 

This was the kind of thing that irritated the temper, yet 
stimulated the interest, of Beaton Brows in their new ac- 
quisition. hlo one knew how to take him. His quiet 
manner left his 'speech unpunctuated, and his fishy eyes, 
level voice, and immovable face put no dot to an ambigu- 
ous ‘‘i,^^and crossed no in a left-handed compli- 

ment. The result of which was that his courtesy made 
every one more uncomfortable than at ease; and that when 
he appeared to compliment, he was felt to sneer. 

At that moment Octavia trotted up to the little group, 
and carried off Yetta for strawberries and cream. 

A vulture sw^ooping down on a lamb!^^ said Fitz- 
George, discontentedly, as he and Elsie Arrol also strolled 
away for that poetic refreshment. 

To which Elsie returned yet more tartly than when she 
had spoken to Mr. Carew: ‘‘Do not idealize Miss Carew 
too much, Petrarca; she is horribly commonplace. Believe 
me, she is not one of us, and never will be.'’'’ 

“ Her beauty would seem to claim her as your sister, 
said Fitz-George Standish, conscious of his chain and bul- 
let. 

“ Oh!^^ said Elsie, discontentedly, “-I should be very 
sorry to be such a May-pole in the first instance, and so 
uninteresting in the second. She has no more in her than 
a great doll! '’^ 

“ Who is your great doll, Mrs. Arrol?^'’ asked Mr. Har- 
court, in his bland way, lisping rather more than usual. 

“ Miss Carew, said Elsie, sturdily. 

Fitz-George writhed; Mr. Harcourt laughed. 

“Well, I do not quite agree with you two, he said^ 
“ And I fancied, Standish, you would have been one to ad- 
mire her. I imagined she was of your style. For myself, 
I find her charming, delightful, a most lovely creature! I 


MILLIONAIRE AND MI*S«9l. 


87 


am sorry you do not. But, de gustibus, you know! Only 
it is droll — you, a young dog on your promotion to be so 
hostile, and I, an old fellow, to be so appreciative. ” 

r — I — ” began Fitz-George. But Elsie stopped him 
with a look. 

‘‘We have a higher standard than most people — Mr. 
Standish and she said, primly. 

“ Higher even than that?"' laughed Mr. Harcourt, point- 
ing to where Yetta sat under the shade of a spreading horn- 
beam,, between Lanfrey Clinton and his sister Ethel, look- 
ing almost of another race and kind, so supreme was she in 
beauty — so gloriously fair and lovely. 

“ A msi’e mask," said Elsie, sharply. “ There is notli- 
ing in her — neither art nor poetry — neither music nor im- 
agination. You will find her out at last, as I have already. 
She is a mere stick!" 

“For the moment blazing like a rocket — shining like a 
star?" asked the rector. 

“ Not in my eyes," said Elsie. “ Certainly no star to 
me!" 

“Not to. you?" asked the rector, who seemed bent on 
heckling that unfortunate Fitz-George. “Ah, well! I 
should not wonder if one of those young fellows yonder 
found her more beautiful than you do. It would be a fine 
solution of the Clinton- Carew problem, and would stop 
the mouths of Cerberus with sops irresistible." 

“ Mr. Harcourt!" cried Mrs. Arrol, indignantly. “ As 
if one of the Clintons would demean himself like this!" 

“ Stranger things have happened before> fair lady, " re- 
plied Mr. Harcourt. “ And, upon my soul, they all seem 
to be getting on uncommonly well there in that corner! I 
think I will go and see what it is all about," he added, as 
he slanted across the lawn, his hands behind his back, his 
apple-round face rosy and smiling, his small eyes twink- 
ling, and his whole being radiant with the consciousness of 
having heckled Fitz-George Standish, stroked Elsie Arrol 
the wrong way, and started a hare, out of which he would 
get good sport, were there reason in the running or none. 


88 


PASTOK CAEEW. 


CHAPTER XL 

THE HEEEDITARY FOES. 

The eldest of the four sisters, Ethel Clinton, was the 
most unhappy, and the one most cruelly disgraziata '^ 
by nature. Too timid to be a good horsewoman, therefore 
cut off from one of the characteristic enjoyments of the 
country; doomed to melancholy meanderings with the gov- 
erness or silent drives with her mother, while her sisters 
were following the hounds or scouring over the face of the 
earth with their father and brothers; too destitute of crea- 
tive genius to find pleasure in art, and with no ear to utilize 
her voice; at twenty-two unsought, unloved, undistin- 
guished by any man in the past and likely to remain so in. 
the future- — she lived in that atmosphere of dead monotony 
so fatally common among well-born girls, who may not 
work. Days passed into weeks, and the weeks made up the- 
years, and still no break came to lift up the heavy cloud 
which weighed on her young life, and give her in its place 
the free beauty of the blue sky. 

Not a favorite with her mother, whom her plainness 
offended, she was a disappointment to her father because 
of her cowardice — to his way of thinking a moral disgrace 
to a Clinton. Hence, a family being but a microcosm^ 
where success is adulated and failure persecuted, her sisters 
cold-shouldered her in imitation of the authorities; and 
when Lanfrey was not at home she was emphatically com- 
panionless. He was the only one who understood her, and 
she in return was the only one who valued him for what he- 
was. By the rest she was held at a heavy discount because 
of her want of shining gifts of mind or person ; and the^ 
gentleness and unselfishness which made her charm made 
also her weakness. 

She missed her vocation in that she was not the nun 
nature designed her to be. Within the closed walls of a 
religious house she would have been as a sinless Magdalen,- 
wiping the feet of the blessed for humbleness of love, not 
in contrition for sin. But the conventions of society w^ere 
too strong for. her. A Clinton could not desert the Nation - 
al Established Church into which she had been born. Nor 


illLLIOXAlKE AND MISER. 


89 


might she put on a distinctive dress and join an Anglican 
Sisterhood, which, failing the truer thing, would have 
given her peace and holy joy. She might not go so far 
even as this; and natural gravitation was not able to over- 
eonie the obstacles set in her way by family and race. 
Hence the religious life was as far removed from her as the 
fiery chariot miich bore away Elijah; and as yet she had 
found no happiness in any other. 

Such a daughter was of no value to Lady Jane. She 
wanted no nuns, no saints, nor seraphs for her girls, but 
brilliant, clever women of the world who would make good 
marriages — their parts redeeming their looks. The Beati- 
tudes translated into daily life rather bored her than not — 
mid she liked better to be amused. A little brown mouse, 
with not a good point in her person save hands and feet 
and nice soft dewy eyes — a nervous little creature who 
could not even ride — what chance had she among the 
stronger and more showy pipkins dasliing down the stream? 
Hone. She was distanced every where. Sophia was moder- 
ately tall, had a good figure and a graceful carriage, was a 
superb horsewoman and a smart conversationalist, could 
pin on lace to perfection and carry off strong combinations 
-of color — and there are men who prefer style to beauty. 
Eose, with a face so freckled as to be almost tawny, sung 
like a dove from the heights of the Holy Mount; and Laura 
promised rare excellence in both painting and music, and 
showed the signs pf a smartness in wit that rivaled Sophia^ s, 
and made one forget the insignificance of her stunted stat- 
ure. But what had Ethel? Nothing; save thoughts 
which, if she uttered, covered her with ridicule and called 
‘down on her rebuke. Certainly she read a great deal, and 
if they wanted to verify a date, a historical fact, a quota- 
tion, they applied to Ethel, and Ethel put them right. 
Bave this not very wide amount of encyclopaedic knowledge, 
she had nothing which gave her consideration at home; and 
only when they wanted her to do something for them did 
her sisters care to court her. And then they did — calling 
her ‘‘ dearest Ethel, and praising her beforehand for her 
compliance. 

Besides all this, she was regarded with a little mistrust 
as well as disfavor. Lanfrey had inoculated her with the 
unrighteous follies he had borrowed from the day; and both 
were known to hold opinions which the family considered 


90 


PASTON CAEEW. 


treasonable and atheistic. One of these atheistic opinions 
vyas the improvement in the material condition of the poor, 
which Lanfrey hoped and, in his own way, worked for. 

“As if the poor were not to be always with us/^ said 
Lady Jane, whose orthodoxy was offended by the doctrine 
o'f rights in a class where she saw only the feudal duty of 
obedience and the Christian virtue of submission. 

These rights — the “ divine discontent by which the 
world improves itself — the obligations of property — logical- 
Christianity carried out into action — the enlargement of 
the bases of society — to all these ideas both fathef and 
mother were passionately hostile; and those who cherished 
them were, according to them, willful propagators of dan- 
gerous delusions. Hence, Lanfrey, though their son, was 
considered reprehensible in that he had allowed himself to 
be bitten by these criminal doctrines; and EtheFs com- 
parative insignificance alone sheltered her from serious 
blame in that she shared them. Butterflies are not broken 
on the wheel; and in a family that respects itself a girLs 
speculative opinions do not count as more important than 
a child^s frowardness. 

The long seclusion of the Clintons, after the terrible 
tragedy of the grandfather’s death, made to-day’s modest 
merriment at Laburnum Lodge quite riotous dissipation, 
even to the younger three girls, not so destitute as Ethel in 
objects of interest. In the stirring of The stagnant waters 
fhat it caused, it disposed this last poor thirsty soul to find 
beauty and interest everywhere. Amorf^ other things, it 
disposed her to like Yetta Carew, so soon as she had seen 
her close at hand, and had talked to her face to face. 
There had been no change in the society at. Beaton Brows 
for some time now; and people, like books, lose their 
freshness when too often read. The very monotony of old 
things opened the door for new loves; and unfortunately 
for Ethel, Yetta Carew was the first to enter. 

It was naturally part of the Clinton code of honor that 
the Carews were to be abhorred. Each member of the 
family was expected to be stanch in his duty and to stand 
shoulder to shoulder with the rest. Should any one among 
them fail, he would be held recusant and disloyal, and 
times would be hard for him at home. The three younger 
sisters had no desire to break the law. They — Sophia, 
Bose, Laura — were 'true Clintons, who knew what was ex- 


MILLIOI^AIRE AND MISER. 


91 


pected of them;, and could be relied on in all things relating 
to the family code. Hence they gave Yetta a wide berth 
to-day in the gardens of Laburnum Lodge, and felt no de- 
-sire to go closer. But Ethel, with her craving heart and 
unoccupied sympathies, put the Clinton flag behind her, 
and took Yetta into the empty chambei s of her soul — as 
affectionate girlsL without lovers, and not specially happy at 
home, sometimes do with other girls; and before the after- 
noon was half over, she thought this new-comer one of the 
most delightful creatures on the face of the earth, and only 
wished that she had , been her sister. As for Maurice, he 
was divided between a certain fierce admiration for the 
beauty of the daughter and all the Clinton scorn of the 
fatliet; while Lanfrey forgot Paston and saw only Yetta. 

If Yetta realized his conception of all sweet mythic saints 
and mediaeval virgins, put into better drawing and less 
harmoniously clad, to Fitz-George Staridish, the Byzantine 
mosaic, she was to Lanfrey Clinton the embodiment of his 
ideal in modern womanhood — that womanhood which all 
young men feel has been made specially for them. If her 
nature corresponded with her form — whereof -ha doubted 
nothing — he sp-w in her the transcript of his most beautiful 
•fancies, the fulfillment of his highest imagination. He 
felt as if he had met her somewhere in the universe before 
— perhaps in another life. They were not strangers but 
old friends long separated — hidden from each other by the 
darkness of the night — kept apart by the unfriendly inti’i- 
oacies of their way. But they had always been near each 
other — always conscious that they stood side by side in the 
darkness — that ofily the envious hedge was between them 
as they walked toward the opening where the two paths ran 
into one. And now that they had met they ‘recognized in 
oach other the consecrated friend, the assigned and certain 
sympathizer. No hereditary feud should separate them 
again. No force should be so strong as their mutual grav- 
itation. He would sheathe the sword that fate had drawn 
between their houses, and she should be the olive-branch 
that would secure peace. Seen for the first time close at 
hand to-day — spoken to for the first time — it seemed as 
impossible as the death of the sun that she should pass out 
•of his horizon again. She was like some splendid treasure 
found on the sea-shore by chance: was she to be let go 
again? were the waves to be allowed to sweep her back into 


92 


PASTON CAKEW, 


the wild w^ste of distance? Surely not! Once found, she 
must be firmly held; and things which were wrong now 
must somehow — ah! that somehow! — be put right. 

Though all this was dim and misty — a mere nebulous 
haze of sensations, not of clear thought — it was definite 
enough to make Lanfrey bold for the present and confident 
in the future, and not afraid to devote himself openly to 
Yetta Oarew — as openly as if she had been Lord Masdew^’s 
sister and not Paston’s daughter — the ambition and not the 
scorn of his family. 

When they had finished their strawberries and cream, 
and had trotted out and finally dismissed all those conven- 
tional little hobby-horses which make up the first talk of 
people who have as yet found no common ground whereon 
to display the sympathy they instinctively feel, Lanfrey 
proposed that they should go round the garden. It was an 
excuse to avoid another game at tennis, which should sepa- 
rate them and cut short conversation. 

‘‘ Have you ever been round the garden. Miss Oarew ?^' 
he asked, with the unconscious hypocrisy of a man want- 
ing to find an excuse for doing as he likes. ‘‘ Would you 
care to come now?^'’ 

“ I have seen it, but I should like to go' again,” said 
Yetta, frankly, rising as she spoke. He and Ethel had al- 
ready risen. “You are coming too. Miss Clinton, are you 
not?^^ she added, with her sweetest smile — for indeed this 
eldest Miss Clinton was a charming girl, so soft and gentle 
and sympathetic. 

“ Yes, I am coming,^-’ said Ethel, with a little laugh of 
pleasure as they turned from the lawn and went through 
the winding path toward the shrubbery. 

Paston, in the act of handing cake to Octavia, glanced 
after them from beneath the brim of his low-drawn haL 
while the three sisters exchanged looks which meant dis- 
approval and foreshadowed Lady Jane — saying as plainly 
as words: “Wait till we get home, and then we shall be 
satisfied ” — Sophia further whispering to her brother: 
“ Maurice! is it not disgraceful? Just look at Ethel and 
Lanfrey. They are paying as much attention to that hor- 
rid girl as if she were a proper person and fit for us ta 
know!” 

“ Lanfrey is a fogl!’^ said Maurice, savagely, feeling as 
if a strange kind of wild beast were gnawing at his vitals — 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 93 

a wild beast which, had he analyzed, he would ha^ found 
to be a complex creature made up of personal jealousy for 
the one part and family reprehension for the other. He 
was angry at the public display of friendliness; but he was 
more ang^ that his brother should have what he had not 
had sufficient whole-heartedness to take. 

Little cared those rebelhous three for what others might 
feel or think. Theirs was the time and the hour — the sun- 
shine and the joy of youth. It was pleasant to be together 
and away from the small crowd of merry-makers on the 
lawn; and Yetta knew no reason why they might not, if 
both Lanfrey and Ethel were conscious that they were 
breaking the law and should have to pay the penalty. So 
much the more reason why they should enjoy to the ut- . 
most now, “eat and drink, for to-morrow we die, ^^con- 
taining a fertile and persistent germ of spiritual truth in its 
sensuality. 

The garden at Laburnum Lodge was not large, but it 
was intricate and ingenious. The shrubbery, which was 
not much bigger than a good-sized handkerchief, was so 
intersected with walks as to be more hke a maze than a 
shrubbery; and in a space which, taking a bee-line, you 
could cross in about a minute and a half, you might walk 
for an hour without very often going over the same ground. 

It was an admirable place for meeting those you desired to 
meet, and avoiding those you wished to avoid. But it was 
not a place for confidential talk or love-making. The 
divisional hedges were too thin for secrecy; they only in- 
sured companionship. 

But there were no Confidences to be made to-day among 
those three. The running was not quite so qi^ck, nor liking 
so hurried, as to flow in a few hours from dim sensation to 
spoken words. Wherefore, when Maurice, fuming with 
jealousy which he mistook for outraged and indignant 
family pride, skirted by these rebellious sinners as he paced 
the walks with Amy Shillibeer, and caused that young 
persona’s horn to be exalted for hope that his flirting chaff 
meant serious business, he heard nothing to which he 
could object, nothing that betokened more approach to in- 
timacy than was contained in the act itself — surely enough I 

Shakespeare and Milton; Tennyson and Morris; the 
“ safe "" novelists; the not too recondite literati; Wagner 
and Brahm and Mendelssohn and Schubert; Leighton and 


94 


PASTQJS" CAEEW, 


Millais-^^ith the supplementary branches from these main 
stems — these were the subjects of those fragments of talk 
he caught as he passed. He heard nothing even of Toyn- 
bee Hall; of the need of education among the masses; of 
the Liberal vote; of higher-class amusements for the poor; 
of co-operation — the working form into which the crude 
conceptions of Socialism would finally set — nothing of 
those heresies which had weakened his brother’s position in 
the family and made him a kind of spiritual Cain among 
them — a mental Prodigal feeding the misty swine of a false 
and distored philosophy. Every now and then he heard 
Yetta’s sweet voice giving utterance to dear girlish plati- 
tudes on thoughts and experiences whereof she had read 
-something and knew nothing; but for the most part it was 
Lanfrey who talked and the girls who listened, according 
to the natural law, when men still keep their place and 
women have not abandoned theirs. 

From this talk Yetta gained one insight into her new 
friend’s character, that of his catholicity of acceptance and 
generous appreciation. He saw good, not evil> as the law 
of life; and he acknowledged the value lying in diversities 
of thought. He had closed no circle, hemmed in no por- 
tion of space for the whole, denies no substance of future 
suns to the nebulae, swept no part of the universe barren of 
beauty and void of possibilities. Because the sky was blue 
he did not say that the earth should not be green. This 
catholicity of appreciation, combined with hope in the fut- 
ure of humanity, was his strongest mental characteristic; 
but it was eminently opposed to the Clinton philosophy, 
where all the circles were closed and the final word had 
been said everywhere, except, perhaps, in electric lighting 
and mechanical appliances. To these a free running rein 
was given. All the rest were wooden horses stabled in 
stalls of iron. 

How sweet it was in these narrow shrubbery walks! Life 
seemed to be like one divine poem, and humanitv to be but 
the gods in masquerade. Never had Yetta feh the joy of 
living in such clearness of expression as to-day — never 
known the beauty of all things earthly so profoundly. To 
Nthel it was the opening of a new chapter;, to Lanfrey the 
restoration of a lost treasure, the finding of a long-expected 
friend. They were all content; for the moment at rest — 
for the day completely satisfied; and when the time came 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


95 


for them to separate, each felt that the afternoon had not 
ended as it had^begun. Something had been ^dded to life, 
which was not there this morning, and which to-morrow 
shoidd not take away. When they said ‘‘ good-bye,^ ^ they 
meant “ a rivederci — Lanfrey intending that the wish 
should -take effect in deed, and the girls hoping that the 
fates would be friendly. But there were always the home 
authorities with whom they had to reckon; and when the 
feast is over the bill has to be paid. The Clinton bill was 
sure to be a heavy one; it was not quite sure that Paston^’s 
would be light. In any case the reckoning had to come 
and the payment to be made. 

When they discussed the day ^s doings at the Hall, ac- 
cording to the way of families, whatever their station or 
breeding, and each contributed his or her quota to the ac- 
count, the fact of Lanfrey ^s extraordinary attention and 
Ethel’s absurd friendliness to that undesirable person. Miss 
Carew, was dwelt on with the emphasis that might have 
been expected. To do Maurice justice he left this little 
chapter of spite to the girls, and added no paraphrase of 
his own. Lady Jane looked at her peccant daughter with 
the displeasure they all knew so well and dreaded not a 
Little. 

‘‘ She is sweetness itself, mother,-” said Ethel, in answer 
to that look. “ She has the most charming manner yon 
can imagine, and seems to be a kind of angel in the place. ” 

‘‘ Ethel has not lost her power of romance, I see,” said 
her father, coldly. 

“Did you girls find her so wonderful?” asked Lady 
Jane of the others, as her response to Ethel. 

“ She is not quite bad,” said Sophia, as if making a 
generous concession; “but she is nothing so wonderful as 
Ethel makes out. ” 

“ And she is such a great tall thing — she is like a gi- 
raffe!"” cried Laura. 

“ Since when were a few inches added to the stature a 
moral demerit, Lolo!” asked Lanfrey, good-naturedly. 

On this Mauribe gave a short laugh. Lady J ane glanced 
at him, taking her cue, then looked at her younger son 
with the same displeasure as her face had shown to Ethel. 

“ One thing we must always remember,” she said, im- 
pressively — “ from thistles do not come figs, nor grapes 
from thorns. The girl’s father is Paston Oarew; her grand- 


196 


PASTOJ^ GAEEW, • . 

mother was a servant and a vile woman as well; and blood 
will out. I grant that she is passably pretty^, and probably 
has a fair kind of middle-class manner, but she is of a bad 
stock, and not a fit associate for you girls.'’’ 

Stilb as we must meet her out, and have been intro- 
duced to her, we can not cut her, can we?” urged Ethel, 
impelled beyond her usual timidity by something she could 
not explain. 

“You may just barely know her — as we are obliged to 
know other dre^f id people here — for instance, that foolish 
Mrs. Arrol and that atrocious Lady Dayman. But that 
does not include intimacy. There must be no familiarity, 
no intimacy! Remember that, Ethel, and all of you. I 
will allow nothing like intimacy between you and this more 
objectionable young person.” 

“ Mother!” cried Lanfrey, in hot remonstrance. 

“ Now, Lanfrey, leave your mother alone, and shut up,” 
said his father, with sudden sternness. “ She is perfectly 
right in what she says. Where no intercourse is possible 
with the father, there can be no friendliness with the 
daughter, however charming she may be. Families must 
hold together; and I suppose your new-born enthusiasm for 
this girl does not go so far as to include Mr. Carew? You 
scarcely wish that we should ask him to dinner, I imagine, 
mid make up our difference over a bottle of champagne?” 

“ I do not see why not,” said Lanfrey. “ We have been 
the injured, and therefore can afford to forgive. It is only 
the wrong-doer who never pardons. ” 

His father turned himself round to look at his son squarely 
between the eyes. 

“You are my son, I know, and I suppose not quite a 
lunatic,” he said, slowly, “ but on my soul I can scarcely 
believe the one, and I am in grave doubts about the other! 
You sit there, and seriously, in your right senses, propose 
that I should shake hands with this base-born adventurer 
who has injured and insulted me? Are you mad, Lanfrey, 
or hopelessly mean and corrupt?” 

“Neither, I hope, father,” he answered; “only an 
•enemy to dissensions which seem to me both unchristian 
mid undignified.” 

“ Silence, sir!” said his father, angrily. “ Let me hear 
no more of this rubbish! Paston Carew is our enemy, and 
can never be anything else; and no true cliild of mine will 


MILLION A IKE AND MISER. 


97 


regard him or his as a possible associate. I do not often 
put my foot down, as you know, and I give my children 
as much liberty as most fathers — ^but I am not to be trifled 
with when once I have made up my mind; and I have 
made it up now. The Carews are not to be known beyond 
the barest outlines forced on us by society; and if one of 
you disobeys me I shall know how to deal with him — or 
her,^^ he added, sternly, turning to Ethel with a look under 
which she quailed. 

So this was the rehearsal of that role of peace-maker 
which Lanfrey had resolved to undertake. Surely not a 
favorable beginning! 


CHAPTER XIL * 

TOUCHING THE UNSEEN. 

“ Mr. Carew! I want you to tell me sometliing. Now 
do!^^ 

This was Miss Gaysworthy. She and her mother had 
called on the rich widower and his beautiful daughter a few 
days after the tennis-party. They were too friendly to 
wait for formahties. Mrs. Gaysworthy had carried off 
Yetta into the orchid house. She professed botany and 
loved orchids. Thus poor dear Babs and that foolish Paston 
Carew were left alone under the cedar-trees on the lawn. 

“ What do you wish me to tell you?^^ asked Paston, 
with his air of well-bred attention and his face like a mask. 

‘‘All about India — I mean the jugglers and all that, 
she answered. “ Those odd things people can do out there, 
and the queer power they seem to have over one another. 
Tell me, please 

“ Why do you care to know?^^ he asked again, in his 
wooden way. “ Of what interest are these subjects to you?^^ 

“Oh, the greatest in the world cried Octavia. “I 
am the most superstitious little goose you can imagine. 
But then I know. I dream of what is to hapiien to me, 
and have seen my fate twenty times — just as it has come 
to me. Silly, isnT it? and yet I assure you it is true!^^ 

“ I do not call it silly,^^ said Paston, coldly. 

“ And I have a good spirit and a bad one,^'’ she contin- 
ued. “ Sometimes one comes about me, and sometimes the 

4 


98 


PASTOK CAEEW, 


other. I call the good Ariel, and the bad Sprite. They 
come when I call them and answer to their names. 

“ How answer?^'’ asked Paston. 

In spite of himself that glassy fish-like look, which, like 
the third ISTapoleon, he could assume at will, gradually 
thinned into the sharpness that was natural to him. 

‘‘Oh! if I have lost a thing and can not find it, don^’t 
you know, I know that Sprite has hidden it away. So I 
either scold him and tell him to bring it me at once, or, if 
he is in a bad humor, and not only mischievous out of fun, 
as he generally is, I call to Ariel to come and help me. 
And he does. He is very good-natured, and when 1 really 
beg him he is sure to fly quick and come; and I find my 
things. 

“ And you know this?^^ he asked, seriously. 

“'Oh, dear yes!^^ she answered, with the brisk careless- 
ness of familiarity. “ I know my two spirits as well as I 
know mamma! Sometimes I hear them quarrel, when 
Ariel wants to send Sprite away, and Sprite is insolent and 
wonT go. I hear them quite plainly.’’^ 

“ What, the words; their voices? How do you hear 
them?’"’ he asked, his seriousness increasing. 

“ In the inside of my head. Hot of course, voices oti 
the outside, but here — here,^^ .said Octavia, putting her 
pointed fingers to the top of her head. “ So now tell me 
about those odd things that happen in India. You see, 
you have not to do with one of those horrid skeptics who 
believe nothing beyond their own foolish noses, but with 
some one who understands a little about these things, and 
who has her own experiences to go by.^^ 

“ I should like to hear more about your experiences,^^ 
said Paston. “ Do you ever see things ?^^ 

“ Do you mean ghosts? Yes, I did once,^^ said Octavia. 
“ A ghost would be sure to show itself to me. But, my 
goodness! how frightened I was!^^ 

“ Where? what was it like?'’^ asked Paston. 

“ It was in Scotland, at a place they call Peebles — have 
you ever heard of it? There is an old Border castle there — 
Held path — and a ghost wanders about the road near the 
old place — a lady with a beautiful old lace veil, or mantilla, 
or something; and I met her in the evening once, and she 
lifted up her veil and showed me a great gash in her throat, 
and then faded away. But why did she show herself ta 


MILLIOKAIEE AND MISilR. 99 

me? what good could I do her, poor thing? If she wants 
to be dug up and reburied, why doesn't she frighten the 
magistrate or the policeman? It was so silly to show her- 
self to me, just a stranger and with no influence in the 
place." 

“That is it," said Paston C are V7, gravely. “ Why do 
they?" 

“ How slad I am you do not laugh at me!" said Octavia, 
ingenuously. “ So many people laugh at these things; and 
all the wdiile one knows them to he true; and these silly 
stupids think themselves so wise!" 

“ Does one know them to be true?" said Paston, his eyes 
seeming to be looking far away into the dim distance of 
things. 

“ Why, of course!" she answered, briskly. “ Don't I 
tell you I have seen a ghost m3^self ? This Neidpath gliQst 
is quite famous down at Peebles, and how could I make it 
out if I had not seen it?" 

“ Then you are a Sensitive?" he said, looking at her 
with interest. 

“I suppose so," was her answer. “I hear knockings 
and things in my room; and sometimes I see strange lights; 
and very often I am conscious of some one there — some one 
I can not see or touch, but that I feel. Do you know that 
sensation, Mr. Carew? It is so funny!" 

“ You do not seem much impressed with your experi- 
ences," said Paston, evading the query. 

“ Oh, I am so used to this!" said Octavia. “ If I were 
frightened, I should be frightened all day and all night long, 
for I am surrounded with these things. What with Sprite, 
and Ariel, and knockings, and my bed-clothes being pulled, 
and stars, and whisperings, and then that real actual ghost, 
I live as much in the unseen world as in the seen, and am 
just as much at home in the one as the other." 

Again Paston looked at her with the same kind of interest 
as before, but questioning and without personal kindness. 
By temperament suspicious, but superstitious by warp of 
intellect, and perhaps as a certain psychological compensa- 
tion for his earth-worm-like existence, he had that perpetual 
hesitancy which belongs to people whose intelligence and 
temperament are at variance. He wished to believe, yet 
was afraid — to deliver up his judgment — that Samson, into 


100 


PASTON CAEEW, 


the hands of the Delilah of credulity. All that was solemn^ 
sacred, awful in his nature was bound up with this belief,, 
or rather quasi-belief, in the supernatural; and it jarred on 
him that what he treated with the deepest reverence, this 
light-minded, foolish woman — this antiquated giglet — made 
into a jest and played with as a toy. Still, she said that 
such and such things had happened to her; and he had no 
right to suspect her of lying until she had proved herself 
false. But if she spoke the truth, what a valuable person 
she would be to him — he who sought and she- who had 
found! — as valuable, and as impersonal, as a magic crystal 
wherein he could read the secrets of the future, and see as 
in a picture the foregone conclusions of fate. Which was 
not exactly the position that Octavia wished to take in Pas- 
ton Carew^s mind — with that stately mansion of Mock-Beg- 
gar wanting a capable mistress. 

“ Have you ever seen anything here at Mock-Beggar?^^ 
then asked Octayia. “ You know, of course, the legend 

“ No,^’ said Paston, a slight thrill running over his flesh; 
‘‘ I never heard of anything. 

This was natural, in view of his youthful isolation at 
Beaton Brows. There had been no one to tell him any- 
thing. 

“ Not the legend which gives its name to the house?^^ 
asked Octavia, with surprise. ‘‘Well, it is this: Once 
upon a time — all these stories begin once upon a time, you 
know,^^ she interrupted herself, laughing shrilly. “ Once 
upon a time a very rich old miser lived at the place, when 
one day a beggar came by, asking charity. It was a horri- 
bly cold winter^s day, but the old wretch refused even a 
crust of bread; so the poor old thing — it was a woman, very 
old, very miserable — went, and the next morning was found 
frozen to death by the old lodge gate — the lodge that is 
now the gamekeeper’s cottage. And then it turned out 
that she was the miser’s mother. So the place was called 
Mock-Beggar after that, and people say that at times she 
haunts the window where she spoke to her son and that 
part of the park where she was found dead. I wonder if I 
should see her if I went there?” 

He laughed uneasily. 

“ As a spiritual detective?” he said. “ Let sleeping 
dogs lie,” he then added, in his dryest manner. “ I should 
be sorry if such an absurd legend crept out into public cur- 


MTLLIOJ^AIHE AKD illSEK. 101 

rency — if Yetta, for instance, should hear it, and have her 
nerves strained in consequence. 

‘‘ Oh! she must not hear it,’^ said Octavia, with energy^ 
‘‘You do not know, Mr. Carew, how careful I am with 
young girls. I would guard them from every kind of 
harm, bodily and mentally; and your daughter is so sweet 
and so young, I would not let her hear a word that would 
frighten or distress her. Oh! you may trust me,’^ she 
added, with more show of earnestness than was usual with 
Octavia Gaysworthy — poor old Bahs always on the trail, 
husband-hunting. “ I am a silly little goose, I know, but 
I am not so silly as I look. ” 

“ Apparently the Dread Powers consider you wise enough 
to be the mirror wherein they represent themselves — the 
medium of communication between themselves and men,^^ 
said Fasten, solemnly. 

“ Yes; so j^ou see I can not be so very bad, said Octavia,, 
in the manner of an apology; “ for my Ariel is a good 
spirit, if Sprite, is a naughty little imp; and good spirits:- 
could not come about a bad girl, could they?^^ 

“ I should think not/^ said Fasten. 

“ So some day you and I will have a little spirit-rapping- 
all to ourselves,'’^ said Octavia, blithely. “ Planchette 
knows me, and writes for me splendidly; and we will get 
messages, and make it tell us things. 

“ I must warn you — I am hard to convince, and essenti- 
ally skeptical,^ said Fasten, rising from his place. “ The 
issues are too momentous to be accepted lightly — short of 
proof that can not be denied. We must exhaust the whole 
possibilities of — mistake — before we accept what, if true, 
will revolutionize the whole world of thought.'’^ 

“You can not deny, unless I cheat, said Octavia, in 
her most innocent way. “ And I donT do that. Whatever 
else I am, I am a truthful little thing. 

“ Without doubt,^^ said Paston, gravely. “ But there 
may be mistakes without intentional fraud. 

“ Yes? How?^^ she asked. 

“ We cannot always separate hallucinations from facts, 
was the answer; “ and the desire to believe creates the 
thing to be believed. ^ ' 

And here the conversation ended. Paston had not told 
Octavia what she had wanted to know, and he had not 
shown his own cards. She was as much in the dark now 


102 


PASTOX CAREW, 


as before, and could not say to any one: Mr. Oarew is a 
spiritualist, and believes in ghosts. This was j ust what 
he did not wish the world to be able to say of him. He 
knew the dangers lying in the investigation, and the ridicule 
which touches the investigator; and he was resolved to avoid 
the latter if he encountered the former. But Octavia Gays- 
worthy as his guide into those mysterious mazes? — his coad- 
jutor in a search which stirred the innermost soul of man 
and dealt with the deepest problems of creation? Surely 
this was bringing the question ‘down to the lowest point? 
Whatever there was of awful and sublime in these far- 
reaching problems was here reduced to commonplace of the 
flattest, to vulgarity of the sharpest, kind. If those Dread 
Powers of whom he sought a nearer knowledge were willing 
to make this antiquated giglet their Iris, by what measure 
could their own truth be gauged? And yet, had not the 
intermediaries between man and the supernatural been 
mean and base before Octavia Gaysworthy^s time? Who 
was the Witch of Endor but a miserable woman hiding her 
gift and afraid of the law, yet one whom the spirit of 
IsraePs greatest Priest obeyed? Who in old Greece and 
Pome wrought charms for love-sick maidens, and compelled 
the secret forces of nature to aid those who sought wdth 
gifts, but beldams scant of food, who, when they burned 
the wax and spun the wool, drew men^s souls and bodies as 
a magnet draws the steel? ^et all the while these Hecates, 
these beldams, were poor and mean — the scorned of the 
wise, the oppressed of the strong, holding though they did 
the threads unseen of subtle force and fateful favor. And 
if them, why not Octavia? Was not the strange discrepancy 
between the thing and the hand — the medium and the spirit 
— joart of the mystery hedging round the subject? 

Paston Carew, the successful manipulator of fortune — 
the conqueror of adverse circumstances — sharp of mind and 
clear of will — delivered up his judgment to these reason- 
ings, and let the Great May-be stand in the foremost ranks 
dominating all the rest. He finally decided that he would 
give himself the chance of deeper knowledge on these mat- 
ters which so inthralled him. And though he might have 
no better guide than Octavia Gaysworthy, yet he would take 
her in lieu of no one — a more satisfactory not to be had. 

If few people would have recognized in the chifformier 
who gathered up the unconsidered fragments of his princely 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


103 


feast the wealthy giver of that feast, fewer still would have 
harmonized the dry man of the world, the hard man of 
business, with this superstitious inquirer of hidden things — 
this puerile diviner who now, with a worn-out old dirty pack* 
of cards, sought to discover the direction of the day^s 
prophecies, and whether they pointed to good or evil. 

“ That snake he muttered, “ Those clouds! How 
they haunt my House of Life! But the sun is always clear, 
though some distance off yet. Still, it all points to success 
in the end; and meanwhile I must work and be patient. 

‘‘ What were you and Mr. Oarew talking of so earnestly 
when Yetta and I came back?^^ asked Mrs. Gaysworthy, 
jauntily. Really he looked as if he had been making a 
confession of faith — or love. 

“ You silly darling!^^ laughed Babs. “ Then it was just 
neither one nor the other. We were talking of spiritualism 
and Blanchette. I said I would write for him.^^ 

‘‘Of course he believes it all, says Mrs. Gaysworthy, 
quite gravely. 

“ Of course,'’^ said Babs. “ How can any one doubt who 
looks into it seriously?^'’ 

“ 1 suppose not,^' said her mother. “ You see, you un- 
derstand these things, Babs, and I do not. 

“ It would be better for you, darling, if you did,^'’ was 
her daughter’s reply. “You get such peace and comfort 
from them.” 


CHAPTER XIII. ■ 

ROWING UP TO CAMELOT. 

The summer’s clay was perfect. Yesterday’s rain had 
refreshed the dusty earth, washed clean the atmosphere, 
brightened all the distances, brought out the smell of the 
herbs and flowers, and made the present a day of which 
poets write, but which people who are not poets so rarely 
see. It was scarcely like an English da 3 ^ Warm and 
radiant, even a fire- worshiper might have spread out his 
hands to the generous glory of the sun; even a Greek 
violet-seller of Pompeii might have sat bareheaded in the 
cornfield, confessing that these barbarians beyond Thule 
knew as much of the grace of the Far-Dater as they who 


lOi PASTOif CAKEW, 

reveled in liis favor on the slopes of Vesuvius or the rose- 
bearing plains of Poseidonia. 

The woods were full of that indescribable music made by 
the whisperings of the leaves and the hum of insects, where 
no sound is distinct, no special note is dominant, but the 
whole flows together into a faintly sounding sea of harmony 
—just as in the quivering air no one color detaches itself 
from the rest, but all weave that harmonious veil of the at- 
mosphere, wherein is the splendor of which we are conscious 
but can not analyze. The bees were thronging the lime- 
blossoms overhead, making a kind of canopy whereof frag- 
rance was the substance and the music of their ceaseless 
humming was the embroidery. The squirrels ran with 
noiseless feet along the branches, and stirred the leaves 
with a touch more delicate than that of the soft south wind. 
5vo bird sung to its mate with the delirious ecstasy of spring, 
but everywhere sweet notes broke through the undistin- 
guished hum and accentuated the general drowsy harmony. 
Wood-pigeons cooed; woodpeckers tapped in the leafy dis- 
tance. The restless chaffinch twittered, the bolder blackbird 
whistled; while the later nestlings, learning to fly, chirped 
like uncertain children as they hopped from twig to twig, 
afraid to trust themselves to bolder flights. In the river, 
which- ran with a pleasant sense of musical motion, half 
dream, half action, the gleaming fish shot swiftly by, or 
lay in cloudy shoals in the shaded shallows; while the" flies 
dipped their filmy wings on the surface, and made little 
rings which widened as they spread. The water birds were 
hidden among the reeds; the water plants were all abloom. 
Xow and then a sharp and sudden cry told of some 
smothered tragedy behind all this apparent peace, some 
blood-stain on this beauty; but, fortunately for himself, 
man is content with things as they appear, and does not in- 
quire too closely as to what they are. 

This river, the Beat, was one of the great beauties of the 
district. Fed by a thousand little tributaries, it became 
broad, tidal, and navigable near the sea; but naturally up 
here, at Beaton Brows, not so very far from its birthplace 
among the hills, it was a stream where nothing drawing 
more water than a river boat could go. Part of its way 
went through the Clinton estate, and near the Hall all 
further progress was eflectually stopped by the Clinton 
Force, where the waters fell in a grand cascade between 


MILLIOXAIRE AisD MISER. 


105 


two walls of perpendicular rocks. Up to a certain distance^ 
however, it belonged to the Clintons on one side only. Oa 
the other it was public property, though it passed through 
the Five Oaks estate. Where it became wholly the Clin- 
tons’, it was no longer navigable for even a skiff, because of 
its narrowness, its rocky bed, and the still seething swirl 
and impetus given by the tumultuous leap of the Force. 
It was just a mountain trout stream — beautiful and roman- 
tic beyond words — ^but it was not a waterway for aught save 
water beasts. The serviceable part stopped at a broadened 
stretch called Heron’s Pool, and the Clintons had put up a 
wear where their sole rights began and those of publia 
participation ended. 

Nothing could be lovelier than this place — ^this Heron’s 
Pool. Fringed with alder and willow, the white stems of 
the birch-trees rising like ivory shafts touched here and 
there with sepia; elms and beeches, oaks and ash-trees,, 
flinging the lighter tones of their foliage like gold and 
bronze against the dark background of pine and fir; king- 
fishers, as brilliantly colored as tropical birds, darting 
through the air; herons standing still as heraldic birds 
carved in stone amid the solemn silence which no vulgar 
blare disturbed; all sweet shy secrets of nature starting out 
here into sight and hearing; all sweet shy flowers growing 
in peace and blooming in security — it was in very truth a 
place of supreme enchantment and delight. But because 
it was so beautiful and so still it was rarely visited even by 
the Clintons themselves, and still more rarely by others. 

Great beauty seldom becomes as familiar as that which is 
less sublime and more homely. It is like great thoughts 
and heroic deeds. We can not be always chewing the cud 
of the one. nor acting the other. And natural scenery fol- 
lows the law with the rest. The most beautiful is only for 
special times and special moods, and those who love it best 
vulgarize it by overfamiliarity least. , 

Lanfrey and Ethel had wandered away through the park 
and wood until they had come to the river and Heron’s 
Pool. Here they sat down on the old tree which was their 
favorite resting-place — she on the mossy roots, he on the 
trunk — and for a time kept silent. The conversation 
they had been carrying on suddenly stopped, and they sat 
looking at the loveliness before them too much absorbed ta 
think of aught beside. 


106 


PASTON CAEEW, 


After a time Ethel spoke. 

‘‘And you think these great changes will come soon?'^ 
she asked. 

“ Yes/^ he answered. “ Some of them within the life- 
time of this generation. They must come soon. The 
j)resent system of things is done for. 

“And you really think the land will go, Lanfrey?"' 

“Without a question. Its present tenure is doomed/’ 
he answered. There must come more equitable laws. 
One by one all the fetishes which oppose the full develop- 
ment of human possibilities and the fair apportionment of 
happiness will have to go, as so many have already gone. 
The proposal to curtail the privileges of the old earls andr 
barons — lords of the soil and seigneurs of men — was in its 
day as great a heresy as the question of property is now. 
But it was done, and we in our turn will live to see some 
arrangements made by which the well-being of collective 
humanity will be held higher than the supremacy of indi- 
viduals — by which the general advance shall be provided for 
as of tlie first necessity. ” 

“It is certainly very dreadful to see how poor the poor 
are, and how rich the rich,” said Ethel. “ And the one 
works, and the other only plays!” 

“ AVe see the injustice in any other state of society but 
our own/’ said Lanfrey, “ and when we are far enough 
removed not to share in the prejudice nor respect the con- 
ventions which rule that phase of society. For instance, 
when we hear of some rich pasha sending down his soldiers 
to rob the poor fellaheen of their earnings, we lift up our 
hands in horror. But it is only the method that is d lifer- 
ent. By the overwhelming force of capital we compel men 
to work for a mere subsistence, and the dividend is the 
Moloch to whom we sacrifice their lives. ” 

“ Still, the men do combine and resist, do they not?” she 
^sked. 

“ And wdll, with more judgment and greater effect wdien 
they are better educated,” was his reply. “ Strikes, like 
everything else, have to go through the process of evolution 
— from brutal and amorphous beginnings into orderly and 
intelligent action. , I look to education — and its sure result, 
decrease in drunkenness and crime — as the only valid anti- 
septic for all these social corruptions. When men are no 
longer virtually savages and helots — where they are con- 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


107 


soious of their duties, have clear views of life, and are not 
afraid to accept responsibilities-rthey will know how to 
claim and obtain. It is a question of time and education; 
and this hour is always coming nearer. 

‘ ‘ I wish they were more sober, and that they did not 
treat their wives so badly, said Ethel. ‘‘ It is dreadful — 
the brutal way in which they behave to their wives!” 

“ And the wives to the children,^ ^ he. returned. ‘‘It is 
all of a piece, Ethel — brutality arising from ignorance — 
want of self-respect a consequence of social degradation. 
But drunkenness and brutality can be educated out of the 
poor as it has been out of. ourselves. What were we, the 
gentry, a few generations ago? There is nothing in vice 
and crime that is integral — inherent — to any class of men, 
like the wool of a negro or the almond eyes of a Chinese. 
The whole question lies in the fairer distribution of wealth 
and of the means of self-improvement, as well as in the 
power of refinement and the enlargement of the bases of 
society. The difficulty is how; the fact that these changes 
must come is undeniable. ” 

Again there was silence. Ethel was a sympathetic 
listener rather than a stimulating conversationalist; and in 
any case was too timid to originate. Suddenly, after a 
while,, she said, in the abrupt way of a person who has 
been long thinking of a matter not hitherto ventilated: 

“ I wonder how Mr. Carew got his money!” 

Lanfrey gave a look of surprise, and almost a start. He 
had been thinking of the same thing, and his sister’s words 
were like the echo of his own thoughts. 

“ Chi lo sa !” he answered, with a forced laugh. “ By 
all accounts he has enough and to spare!” 

“ Do you like him, Lanfrey?” 

“I? Not particularly,” he answered. 

“He is so cold and reserved. He is like a man who has 
done something he wants to hide, and that he is afraid will 
come out,” said Ethel. “He strikes me as the coldest 
man I have ever seen; but also as if he were hiding some- 
thing. Do you feel this too?” 

“ In a certain sense; but I did not notice him much, ” 
returned Lanfrey, with a slight accent of reluctance, as if 
he did not care to talk of Paston Carew. “ He is not very 
prepossessing, certainly, but I dare say if we knew him we 
should find some good in him. And his manner may come 


108 


PASTON CAKEW. 


from the consciousness of his birth and original position 
here.” 

‘‘ She is more than charming — she is delightful in every 
^vayl'" said Ethel, enthusiastically. ‘‘ How lovely she is, 
tool and what sweet manners she has! I never saw any 
one I took such a liking for at first. I am only sorry that 
we can not know her. What a pity that father and motfier 
are-so strongly set- agamst her! They will never let us be- 
come intimate; and I should so like to have her as my 
friend. 

‘‘ Meliora latent,” said Lanfrey, steadily. “ Some 
clay.^^ 

“No, Lanfrey, never! I know mother too well, and fa- 
ther too! They are as firm as fate when they have made 
up their minds. And perhaps they are right, all things 
considered; for Mr. Carew did act badly about Mock-Beg- 
gar, and father naturally can not forgive liim.^^ 

She sighed as she spoke, with that meek obedience char- 
acteristic of the habitually self-suppressed. One by one 
she had had to give up her coveted desires, and to see the 
destruction of her little shrines — to suffer the mutilation 
and burning by fire of her gods. This was only one other 
trial added to the tale; but it was a hard one, and she re- 
;gretted it keenly. 

“ No,’^ said Lanfrey, sternly; “ it is not better, and it is 
not right. And it shall not be,^^ he added. “ The day 
must come when tliis feud shall be at an end, and the 
Carews and ourselves be friends. By-gones must be by- 
gones, and neither we nor any other family can afford to be 
111 ways resentful. Our father must forgive Mr. Carew, and 
our mother must receive her. There is no reason why not. 
As I said, before, to them — we have been the injured, so 
we can forgive. The difficulty will be with Mr. Carew, 
who did us the wrong, and probably will not forgive us. ” 

“ If mother knew her she could not stand out,^^ said 
Ethel. “ No one could. She is like a lily, a swan, an 
angel — I do not know what to compare her to, she is so 
lovely. Is she not lovely, Lanfrey? is she not delightful?’^ 

Her brother looked across the pool to where the willows 
dipped their branches in the still waters, and the lobelia 
shaded the margin in pale blue, beyond which flushed the 
tall stems of the rose-bay willow. The sadness in his face 
was mingled with resoluteness, and something that was as 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


109 


tender as love, as faithful as hope. If on the one side Yetta 
Oarew was like a goddess whose worship is forbidden, on 
the other she was that same goddess whose worship he had 
undertaken to preach, and whose religion he would devote 
himself to spread. He had no ulterior thought. His sole 
desire at this present time was to make his parents see the 
value, the beauty, the charm of the daughter as he saw it; 
and for the sake of that charm — and that they might profit 
by it — receive and forgive the father. 

“ Yes, she is very beautiful,^ ^ he said, after a pause. 
^ ‘ And as sweet as she is beautiful. ^ ^ 

What a pity that she should be his daughter said 
Ethel. Any one else, it would not have signified so 
much; but his?^ , • 

‘‘Between two things — the good equals the bad,^' said 
Lanfrey. “ And she will not be the first whose personal 
value has redeemed a vicious origin, and made the world 
accept undesirable relations. I do not understand why the 
bad should always be made of more importance than the 
good. To me the cases should be reversed, and condona- 
tion, for the sake of the one who is beautiful and delight- 
ful, should be given to the one who is neither!^^ 

“ I wish all people thought so,^^ said Ethel. “ I wonder 
why you think so differently from others?^'’ After a few 
moments she added, “ You are not like the rest of us — you 
'seem to belong to another style of person altogether. Why 
is it, Lanfrey?’^ 

He laughed. 

“ ‘ ^ 1-. all he asked. “ But you follow 



It seems to me you generally 


“ Yes, because it is you,^^ she answered. “ I like your 
thoughts better than any other person; and they seem to 
•clear my own. When you talk to me, Lanfrey, it seems 
that I have felt all you say before, but have not been able 
to put it into words, nor make it clear to myself. 

‘ ‘ That is very nice of you, and very pleasant to me to 
hear,"^ he said. “ Then he took her hand in his, and look- 
ing at her, said, tenderly: “ You and I will live together, 
Ethel, when I have made a home fit for you to share. 
That is, if you do not throw me over for some one else, 
;and marry before I have made my fortune. 

“ I shall never marry, said Ethel. “ And if I might 


110 


PASTON CAREW, 


live with you I should not care to have any other home. 
But you, Lanfrey — -you will throw me over, not I you!'*^ 

Ho laughed a little bitterly. ‘‘I? Ho, my dear. I shall 
be the bachelor brother of the family, who will take care of 
you and be pillaged by his nephews."’^ 

‘‘ Hot that; I would not allow that,^^ said Ethel, affec- 
tionately. But you might take care of me, and I would 
look after your house, and see that your buttons were all 
sewed on as they should be,'’^ she added, in a lighter strain. 

Again there was silence, lasting for some time — a quiet 
and half -sad silence, where each mind went as its thoughts 
listed, and neither inquired of the other. Ethel was think- 
ing how much she wished her brother had already attained 
that position at the bar which should give him his standing 
and her a home; and he was thinking how much he wished 
that Yetta Carew had been any other than her father^s 
daughter; or that, being what she was, he could change his 
parents^ mind — and where should he find the leyer? 

Presently, while they were sitting in this absolute silence, 
there came up from the river a slender thread of song — a 
little ripple of melody. It was accompanied by the slow 
and rhythmical splash of water as an oar was gently dipped 
and quietly raised. The sound grew in volume as it came 
nearer, for coming up the stream, it did not travel far. 
Just as they heard the words, ‘‘ Love me well, but do not 
leave me,^^ there glided into the still pool a little skiff, 
wherein was seated a girl dressed in white, with water-lilies 
lying in her lap, singing in an undertone as she rowed her- 
self against the stream — to where the force of the current 
lost itself in the unstirred waters of HeroiPs Pool. 

A large wolf-hound in the boat, lying as motionless as a 
bronze statue, pricked up his ears and opened his eyes, giv- 
ing a low growl as the girl floated into the pool. He had 
scented what she had not seen — those two figures sitting on 
the old moss-grown tree by the water-side; Ethel thinking 
of the time when she should escape from the uncongenial 
atmosphere of home and be her dear brother's glad com- 
panion; Lanfrey, of the pity of it, that Yetta Carew should 
be her father^s daughter, and her father the enemy of his. 

Ethel cried out, and Lanfrey sprung to his feet, as Yetta. 
came into view — giving, as it were, form and substance to 
his thoughts. And yet it was not unexpected, not unnat- 
ural. It seemed almost as if he had looked for her and had 


Ill 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 

Icnown that she was coming all the time they had been sit- 
ting here — talking of her — thinking of her — as if they had 
drawn her by the magnet of their desire^, and she had obeyed 
the secret impulse and shown herself docile to their influ- 
ence. 

She, on her side, started visibly when she saw them, and 
blushed like a June rose over all her face and throat. She 
did not know why she blushed so violently, except that 
they startled her — that tall, noble-looking young man, with 
a face like that of a Greek god Christianized into St. John; 
his eager eyes so full of thought and softness behind their 
brilliancy; his whole air and manner instinct with some- 
thing that was not of every-day life — that was as life illu- 
mined by the glory of romance, sweetened by the charm of 
poetry; and the girl whose soul was like some beautiful 
princess doomed by a malicious fairy to be disguised by 
shameful seeming — so good, so true, so lovely as she surely 
was in heart and mind, and yet so wanting in personal 
charms! Yes, they startled her, sitting there so still and 
motionless. And that was why she blushed till her face 
and throat were like so much snow touched by the after- 
glow. • 

All this romance, however, had to be hidden as care- 
fully as if covered with fern-seed, and the formal greetings 
were exchanged just as they would have been among the 
most indifferent people in the world, who did not care the 
turn of a hair whether they had met or should never see 
each other again. 

Y^our lovely dog!^^ then said Ethel, more by instinct 
than design. 

She felt that she must say something to make this girl 
stay for a while, and not pass back into the dream-land from 
which she seemed to have come. 

Y^'etta smiled. “Yes, he is a great beauty — a dear old 
fellow,^ ’ she answered. “ He sits like a statue in the skiff, 
and knows as well as I do that if he were to jump about, he 
would bring us -both to grief. He is wonderfully intelli- 
gent. 

“ What is his name?^^ asked Lanfrey, holding out his 
hand and making castanets of his fingers, which it was well 
for Y^etta the dog disregarded as foolishness. 

“ Brian, said Yetta. “ That is a good name for him, 
is it not?^^ 


112 


PASTON CAREW, 


‘‘ Perfect/^ was the answer. ‘‘ Now that you have come 
so far, will you not give yourself and Brian a rest by change 
of position?’-’ he continued, his father’s prohibition, his 
mother’s command, forgotten like the winds of yesterday. 
“ Come on shore. It is quite easy, you see, here. The 
water is deep enough to float the skiff, and you can step 
out as on a pier. Come, let me help you. ” 

He held out his hand, standing close to the margin. 

‘‘ Yes, Miss Carew, do come!” said Ethel, eagerly. 

Why should she not? Because these two young Clintons 
were here, what harm was there in getting out of the boat 
where she had intended to land, and look for wild-flowei-s, 
from the beginning? It was only changing the sides. Sho 
had intended to land on the Five Oaks side, because tliis of 
the Clintons was forbidden. Their being here made all the 
difference between permission and prohibition; and why 
might she not? 

Nevertheless, in spite of that rapid little excursus of rea- 
soning, Yetta felt as if she were doing something she would 
rather all the world did not see nor know of, as she drew 
her little skiff inshore, and stepped out on land. Perhaj^s.' 
she was conscious of vague fault because she was so glad to* 
see these two young people. Gladness does sometimes take 
on itself the half-shadow of sinfulness. We poor human 
beings are so used to sorrow, la joie fait peur when it 
comes in too great a volume, or at unexpected times. 

‘‘ Now we know that you are living, and not the Lady of 
Shalott,” said Ethel, with a happy little laugh. 

Yetta laughed too. She had a singularly musical laugh,, 
of but a few notes, low, and very sweet. She had a singu- 
larly musical voice altogether. 

“ It is not often that painters spoil the poets,” she said, 
lightly; but that poor dear Lady of Shiott, who was so 
lovely, so mysterious — how the artists have caricatured and 
vulgarized her! I have never seen one that gave a true im- 
pression of her— at least, not according to my own idea of 
her.” 

“ Nor I,” said Lanfrey, ‘‘ until to-day.” 

And again the fair face and neck of Paston Carew’s 
daughter became like a June rose, or like snow touched by 
the after-glow. 

*‘ But I was not drifting,” she said, with an effort — how 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 113 

strange that effort was! ‘‘ I was rowing up against the 
stream, not drifting down to Camelot!^^ 

“ No,^^ said Lanfrey; “you were not drifting down; 
you were, as you say, rowing up, of your own free-will; not 
singing in your song to die, but to sing again to-morrow, 
and for many happy years to come. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

NOTWITHSTANDING. 

Rowing up to Camelot, not drifting down toit;^not 
dead nor torpid, but flushed with all youth ^s sweet activi- 
ties; not peering through a mirror at the living world of 
men and maidens, but looking straight ahead, seeking to 
understand what she saw, though her eyes were still veiled 
by the ignorance and illusions of youth, and shadows took 
the place of living things in the peopling of her world; not 
breaking the web prematurely nor entangling herself in the 
curse which should have been her blessing; unconscious as 
yet of the form and the voice of the Sir Lancelot of her 
future, yet knowing that he was there in the near distance, 
soon to come into sight; these were the points of difference 
between Yetta Carew and the Lady of Shalott, for all the 
personal fitness of the one to stand as the living >embodi- 
meut of the other. 

Neither was Yetta morbid nor fanciful. If far from the 
line where girlish vigor loses itself in boyish robustness, she 
was as healthy in body as she was untainted in mind — free 
from hysteria, unafflicted by vapors, and neither volcanic 
nor angemic. She knew how to enjoy, if also how to suffer; 
and though her laugh was soft and low, it was full of all 
that exquisite sense of pleasure which belongs to those 
whose senses are healthily developed. Her main desire 
was to do what was right; but with this conscientiousness 
was no fanciful exaggeration, no half -diseased imagination. 
Carefully educated by a lady who might have spoiled all, 
but happily did not, she was still her natural self; for all 
that; she had been under the hand of one of those cast-iron 
school-mistresses who allow no enthusiasm and suffer no 
innovations. 

Miss Price had a select establishment of young ladies of 


114 


PASTON CAKEW, 


good fortune and impeccable lineage — so far as was known ; 
and in this well-handled dove-cote no sillinesses were counte- 
nanced which could arouse the undesirable sensibilities of 
the young pigeons — perhaps to eventuate in follies equal 
to that of the famous ginger-beer bottle. No school-girl 
friendships, with their jealousies and extravagancies, pref- 
aced Love as the rehearsal precedes the play. When signs 
appeared of a closer intimacy than was held desirable by 
the authorities, by some mysterious means an airy nameless 
wall was deftly raised between the two, where not even a 
chink was left through which Thisbe with plaits could 
whisper to Pyramus with a fringe. No one knew how it 
was done; but of a surety these subtle wedges were always 
driven in between two yearning white souls, which kept 
them apart — and the play unrehearsed — however great 
might be their desire. 

Nor was encouragement given to such intellectual am- 
bition as would lead to Girton or Newnham ; nor was there 
any fostering of Red Cross or hospital-nurse proclivities. 
No forbidden literature crept into this scholastic Eden — 
three-volumed serpents offering poisoned apples to lure 
maiden Eves to desire unlawful knowledge. There was 
no fleeing into space with the music-master; nor notes ex- 
changed with the fledgling heroes at the school next door; 
nor breathing sentimental fancies in halting verse to the 
unknown deity of the future. A slightly monastic tone of 
suppression was, like a gray tint, over everything; and even 
religion was encouraged only up to the point beyond which 
it would have ceased to be respectable and would have be- 
come fanaticism. The school curriculum was sound, but 
by no means stimulating. It included a great deal of his- 
tory, grammar, modern languages, geography, and well- 
sifted literature. Modern politics and decent travels — 
where the men were not naked and the women not too hos- 
pitable — ethnology did not count — also came into the field. 
But there was not much modern poetry beyond excerpts 
from Tennyson and Longfellow. Jean Ingelow and the 
milder 'imrvuli, who were sentimental, restricted, and safe. 
Botany was not taught. It was put into the same basket 
with anatomy, physiology, and erotic poetry — with “ Ouida ^ ^ 
and all other naughtiness. Drawing was confined to little 
cottage children well washed and rendered innocuous — to 
casts, such as blind old Homer, Demosthenes, Ajax defying 


MlLLIOiq^AIirE AisI) MISER. 


115 


the lightning, and Augustus, both young and matured — 
with acanthus leasees and pomegranates, landscape sketch- 
ing, and still-life generally. But the work was excellent, 
and the elimination of the dangerous moral element did 
not touch that accuracy of eye and precision of hand which 
after all constitute proficiency. 

Miss Price was nervously alive to that dangerous element, 
and profoundly conscious of the inherent evil of human 
nature — and of girl-nature most of all. 

“ Oh, those girls she used to say, with strange bitter- 
ness — feeling not unlike one keeping guard over a tribe of 
snow-white little cats demurely seated round the cream- 
bowl. 

Hence, all those who had any fire of inner life or ardent 
eccentricity of thought were repressed under her hand till 
their fire had turned to ashes, or till it had learned to keep 
itself alive under hatches closely battened down. 

This was what Yetta had done. Her real self had been 
concentrated by compression,-but her enthusiasms had not 
withered because they had been kept in the dark and under 
glass. She had a burning desire to devote herself to others; 
to do good; to even suffer in the cause of virtue if so be 
that suffering should follow on the heels of testifying. " So 
far as she had ^^et gone she had found only her father to 
put into the vacant niche dedicated to her unspoken wor- 
^ship. Him she had idolized; but she was slowly awaken- 
ing to a truer perception of his nature than that ideal por- 
trait which love had framed and fashioned, and his strange 
meannesses and shameful scrapings were beginning to 
alarm and sadden, not yet revolt, her. Meanwhile her 
girlish heart had turned one of its sides to Mrs. Ellacombe, 
the only woman she wished had been her mother; and 
under her infiuence her thoughts were becoming enriched, 
her knowledge enlarged, her views of life rectified and 
made more reasonable. Mrs. Ellacombe was the best 
friend she could have had; as Paston Carew, a good judge 
of women, had seen from the beginning. 

These two young people — these two members of the Clin- 
ton family — had also charmed Yetta. la proportion to her 
strange dislike for Maurice, and her want of sympathy for 
the other sisters, was her attraction to Lanfrey and Ethel. 

I It was pleasant to feel that at least these two redeemed the 
Ibarrenness of that other part of the family holding, and 


116 PASTON CAREW, 

that all the Clintons were not — she found no harsher word 
in the depths of her gentle mind than — disagreeable? She 
was glad that she had rowed up the river to-day and found 
them here; glad that she had accepted their invitation to 
come on shore and sit with them on the mossy roots of that 
old elm-tree — for all the sentimeiit of sometliing that would 
not be quite approved of at home, which possessed her on 
her side. With Lanfrey and Ethel it was a clearer con- 
sciousness of something positively forbidden; with penalties 
to follow if found out. 

They made a pretty picture grouped there by the still 
waters of the pool, backed by the cool green wood, the floor 
of which was “ all paved with daisies and delicate bells,^'’ 
feathered with the fronds of the polypody and plumed with 
stouter bracken. The pure coloring of Yetta, her grace 
and graciousness, the luster of her youth and the charm of 
her personality; the pathetic tenderness in the face of dusky- 
skinned little Ethel; the noble bearing and manly beauty 
of Lanfrey, gentleman by the firman of nature as well as 
by that of society; the wolf-hound lying at Yetta^s feet, 
and the softened light over all — everything fitted in to form 
a picture that would be remembered by each as something 
dilferent from the acts or words of ordinary life and time. 
Yetta — as Lanfrey had felt at Octavia Gaysworthy^s— had 
a confused kind of idea that she had been here before, just 
as she was now, with these two young people. It seemed 
to realize an old conception, to repeat something acted in 
the past. To Ethel it was like a dream. She scarcely knew 
whether it was real or some fancy born of the summer haze 
and heat — some vision crossing the half -sleeping eyes, when 
things takedift'erent forms from those they have in the cold 
rude working-hours, and spiritual influences materialize 
themselves for the delight of the dreamer. Lanfrey was 
the most awake and conscious of the three. He had gone 
through that phase of previous experience which was 
troubling Yetta; and to-day was intensely alive to life and 
fact and thought and emotion. He was the first who broke 
the strange silence which fell on them for a few moments, 
as it had before fallen on him and Ethel. He broke it, as 
he needs must, by a banality. We have to bury deep in 
our hearts, and under the tomb of silence, those wandering 
angels who dwell with us unbidden, and whom we dare not 
reveal! 


MILLIONAIEE AND MISEK. " x 117 

“ I am glad you have come to-day!"' said Yetta. ' 

‘‘ And I/" she answered, frankly. ‘‘ The wood is loiAk- 
ing so beautiful — the colors are so fine — and the day is so 
absolutely perfect," " she continued, finding reasons as if to 
excuse and justify her. 

“ Do you often come here?"" he asked again. 

“ No, not often. I have been here only twice before,"" 
she answered. “It is rather a long pull e river, 
though going back is so easy. "" 

“ Your boat is light. It is a capital boat — the very 
thing for the river,"" said Ethel, who found it pleasant to 
praise even a bit of wood and paint, failing anything nearer 
Yetta Oarew's own personality. 

“Yes, it is a dear little thing,"" said Yetta, in return. 
“ It just suits Brian and me."" 

“ You should call it the ‘ Water-lily," "" said Ethel. 

“ I have chosen half the name,"" she laughed back in 
return. “ I call it the ‘ Water- Witch. " "" 

“ Have you ever been through our wood, over the park 
stile, to where you can see the Hall and the fells beyond?"" 
asked Lanfrey. “ It is our crack view."" 

“No, never,"" she answered. “I have never landed 
here before — not on this side "" — looking up to the big black 
board, on which was painted in long white letters, “ Tres- 
passers will be prosecuted."" “ Mr. Standish's side is free 
to the general public,"" she added. “So I have landed 
there — hut not here. I did not want to be prosecuted,"" 

are not one of the general public,"" said Lanfrey, 
quickly, “ To you all we have should be free. "" 

“ Surely!"" said Ethel, with even more pronounced em- 
phasis — her father and mother notwithstanding. 

“You are very kind,"" said Yetta, smiling; “ but, after 
all, I am one of the mere public, you know; and I should 
be a trespasser, whether prosecuted or not. "" 

Lanfrey" s face flamed up as she said this. It came upon 
him with a sense of physical pain to think that Yetta Ca- 
rew was a stranger on his father's land, and might be 
warned off with no more ceremony than a wandering tramp 
— warned off by Jim Sherwood say, surly, morose, uncom- 
promising Jim! 

“ To-day you are under our protection, and we can take 
you where we like, the big board not counting!"" he said. 


laughing 


118 


PASTON CAREWj 


trying- to laugh off his discomfort; and feeling as if he could 
withstand the world in arms for the sake of this girl — only 
so lately known. “ Where would you like to go? — through 
the wood and to the park where you get the view?'’^ 

Yes, with much pleasure,^^ said Yetta, looking at Ethel 
while she spoke. ‘‘ Would you like it, Miss Olinton?^^ 

“ Of all things,^ ^ answered Ethel. But she thought,, 
with a Ijft.ie spasm of dread: What on earth would become 
of them ail, should they meet any of their own people? 
Lanfrey was evidently not afraid. Perhaps he wanted to 
force the situation, and compel his father and mother to 
receive this girl. They must perforce love and admire if 
only they saw her. For how could they help it? And how 
could they avoid knowing her? and what could they have 
done to-day, when she rowed up to them? It had to come I. 
It must. Still, when it did come there would be storms- 
and tempests and cascades of boiling water; which made 
poor sensitive little Ethel shiver only to imagine. There 
was no help for it, however, at this moment — and at the 
worst she would be associated with Lanfrey; so the three 
turned away from the river and went through the narrow 
winding path, with Brian at the heels of his fair mistress,, 
subduing his hunting propensities as a conscientious and 
well-bred dog knows how — but with sore pain and diffi- 
culty. There was so much game about! — and the scents; 
were so warm! 

Yetta gathered wild-flowers as she wejit. She had begun 
to study botany — invited thereto by Mrs. Ellacombe, who 
dreaded idleness for girls as much as a mediaeval monk 
might have dreaded the study of magic for his acolytes, and 
helped by an illustrated Sowerby, by which she flrst verified 
her flowers and then learned all about them. Perhaps this 
was a weak way of working. It certainly was beginning at 
the wrong end. But she did the best she could with her 
material; and her opportunities were not generous. 

Her hands were full of wild -flowers; her narrow, arched, 
and firmly knitted feet falling lightly on the road -way and 
stirring the wood birds as she passed; the sunlight falling 
in long lines across the path and touching her golden hair 
to glory; her long white simple dress deepened to gray in 
the shiiows, brightened to silver in the sunshine — she was 
in truth one of the chiefest among women! And both Lan- 
frey and Ethel thought what splendor of beauty, what 


119 


MILLIOKAIlli: AND MISER. 

charm of grace, she had~what a queen to be worshiped, 
what a goddess to be adored! And how far off she stood 
— and how far above them all — she who was Paston Oarew^s 
daughter, and their own parents^ object of slight and scorn! 

Then they came to the end of the wood and the begin- 
ning of the park — there where the broad wooden steps led 
from the trees to the grass — with the locked gate at the top, 
.as a still further barrier against intruders. 

To the right, on an eminence, the red Elizabethan Hall 
stood square and massive against the sky — its quaint gables 
and straight stacks of clustered chimneys cutting the line 
with fine picturesque effect. It seemed to dominate the 
landscape. The .broad path, interspersed with noble trees,,, 
singly or in groups— the old-fashioned quincunxes — flowed 
out like a verdant sea from the sloping garden terraces. 
The limits were hidden by the undulating nature of the 
ground and the belt of woods beyond. The valley broad- 
ened as it trended seaward; but to the side the fells and 
lower mountain spurs were like great walls of amethyst 
seen in the quivering summer^s sunlight. About the house 
the workmen '’s scaffolding was a tracery, not an eyesore — 
so supreme by its beauty can the sun make things even 
unlovely in themselves. Deer were standing in groups 
under the trees; kine were lying on the grass; in the dis- 
tance cottages and houses shone white from amidst the 
green, suggesting dramas and the peaceful idyls of country 
life. It was a view of the kind to make those who love our 
England love it still more and more; and to Yetta it was 
like something enchanted and yet real — as if its beauty had 
a significance bey6nd that of mere artistic loveliness — as if it 
held some relation with her own fate, and contained the 
lines of her future history. 

‘‘ How beautiful !^^ she said, in alow voice — how beau- 
tiful!’^ 

Do you like it?” asked Laufrey, strangely radiant. 
“We think it the most beautiful view in the whole district. 
You have a fine view at Mock-Beggar; but we think this 
finer. ’ ’ 

“Infinitely,” said Yetta. “And yet, how I love our 
own!” 

Ethel put her hand on the tall girl’s arm and gave it an 
affectionate pressure. 

“ I am so glad you like it so much!” she said. “ It is a 


120 


PASTON CAEEW, 


kind of fetich with us— this view. We are silly enough to> 
judge a little of people by their impressions of it. Some- 
times they are so dull and wooden as not to see any special 
beauty in it. ” 

‘‘ Impossible! They must indeed be wooden,^' said Yetta. 

‘‘ And that you are not/^ said Lanfrey. 

“ I hope not/^ she laughed. 

‘‘Has your father never spoken to you of this view 
asked Lanfrey, not presaging the truth. 

“ My father?’^ she repeated, with surprise. “ Has he 
seen it? — when?^^ 

Brother and sister looked at each other. Yetta ^s answer 
opened to them a vista they had not foreseen. It had never 
occurred to them that she knew absolutely nothing of her 
father ^s history. 

“ I thought he might, said Lanfrey, dryly. . 

To which Yetta answered with a quiet indiiference that 
showed more and more clearly how things were: 

“ He may. I do not know. At all events, he has not 
spoken to me about it. But I will ask him to-day when I 
go home.^’ 

After a little more talk — a little more looking — the three 
turned back through the wood. The loveliest moments fly 
like soft-winged moths or radiant sunbirds; the sweetest 
hour comes to an end like the sweetest flower; and Time, 
the creator and destroyer of all things under heaven, goes 
on his way, strewed now with newly opened buds, and now 
with the corpses of dead loves. Their hour had come to 
them, as to all others; and they must go back from the 
gate of this English paradise of peace to where the river 
should separate them once more. 

A-s they were going through the wood they met an elder- 
ly man in the leathern gaiters and fur cap of a gamekeep- 
er, carrying a gun and bag, trudging stolidly up the path. 
This was Jim Sherwood, on the lookout for poachers, ver- 
min, and trespassers indiscriminately. He stopped to let 
the young people pass, and took ofl* his fur cap, standing 
bare-headed the while. 

Lanfrey smiled and nodded to liim good-humoredly, say- 
ing, “ Good-day, Sherwood in a half-amused voice, for 
his deference was indeed unusual; and Ethel repeated her 
brother's woMs. 

But monosyllabic, misanthropic, surly Jim Sherwood 


MILLIONAIEE AKD MISER. 


121 


scarcely saw his master ^s son. All his rugged pent-up soul 
went out to Patty Carew^s granddaughter — that stately lily 
whereof the roots were planted in the mud and mire — ‘that 
gracious queen of womanhood, with blood in her veins no 
honest country lass would share — Patty Carew^s grand- 
‘daughter — and in some subtle way not unlike her. 

The blood gathered round Jim Sherwood^s heart till he 
was almost strangled and could scarcely breathe. As Yetta 
passed she looked at him with her large, divine, and seri- 
ous eyes, slightly bowed and faintly smiled. Her white 
dress brushed the bush against which he had pressed him- 
self to let her go freely by. He felt as if he would like to 
break off the hallowed twigs over which her gown had been 
drawn, and keep them forever, as a devout Catholic keeps 
the sainted palm which the Pope has blessed. 

All this was rightfully hers. It was by the sin and shame 
of others that her father had not inherited; and if her fa- 
ther, then would her part have been secure. She was his 
young mistress in the eye of God; though the cruel law of 
unjust man had placed others before her. But to him, 
-carrying ever in his heart that secret love for her father^s 
mother, like a shrine hidden among the ruins — to him she 
was his own. And it was to do her honor — to show respect 
to her, not to these usurpers — that he doffed his cap and 
stood bareheaded as they passed. 

Patty Carew^s granddaughter!^^ he said, as they went 
their way and left him to his thoughts undisturbed. “ She 
might have been mine, if things had gone as they should, 
and like had paired with like — or she might have been my 
young mistress now, if Maurice Clinton had done what he 
ought, and made an honest woman of Patty afore he had 
m^e her a bad one.^'’ 

• ‘‘ What a hard face that old man has, and yet there is 
something fine in it,^^ said Yetta, after they had passed 
and were well out of hearing. 

Jim Sherwood? Yes, he is a strange old fellow, said 
Lanfrey. “ Honest and faithful, but surly as a bear. We 
all think he has had some disappointment in early life. 
There must be something to account for his queer temper 
and lonely life.^^ 

Poor old fellow said Yetta, sympathetically and let 
the subject pass from her mind. 

She had skirted by the place where the secret founts of 


122 


PASTON CAREW, 


her life were hidden, but as unconsciously as a traveler wha 
has crossed the grave of a murdered man; and no wander- 
ing spirit, no sympathy of thought, warned her that in Jim 
Sherwood, the Clinton gamekeeper, she had touched the 
outside boundaries by which her own being was surrounded. 

Then the three parted, and Yetta promised to come back 
here to Heron '’s Pool some day soon — perhaps, nothing in- 
terposing, this day week. And when she passed out of 
view, to Lanfrey, and to Ethel too, it was as if the sun had 
go-ne down and the night had come in its stead. 


CHAPTER XV. 

DIMLY FORESEEN. 

Yetta did not understand why she hesitated to tell her 
father where she had been and what she had done to-day. 
How much rather she would have, kept silent! It seemed 
such an easy thing, when she was with the young Clintons, 
to say that she would ask her father about the view; but 
now, when she was face to face with him, how strangely 
difficult it had become! How much rather she would have 
passed the whole thing by, and have confessed nothing be- 
yond the simple fact of a row on the fiver — which he knew 
already. But she had never yet run her feet into the en- 
tangling net of deception and double-dealing, and she was 
n^t minded to begin. Still, it was an effort, and she was 
conscious of the cost. 

When they were seated at table— that meagerly furnished 
table, where a large appetite would have been a crime and 
would have created a famine, and where even a healthy one 
was an inconvenience to its possessor — Yetta busied herself 
in futile scrapings of her slender mutton bone, while she 
said, with as much indifference as she could muster: 

‘‘I saw that view to-day, father — that beautiful view 
from the park stile of Clinton. Do you know it?^^ 

Paston started visibly, and his pale face suddenly became 
livid. Had she been looking at him she must have seen 
these signs of trouble, but at the moment she had enough 
to do to hide her own — of which the source was so much 
more obscure than was. his. 

“ Yes?'’^ he answered, after a pause — his assent a ques- 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. / 123 

tion, not an affirmative. “ And how did you get there, 
child?^^ 

‘ ‘ I rowed up to Heron^s Pool, and found two of the 
Olintons there — Miss Clinton and Mr. Lanfrey,^^ she an- 
s-wered. ‘ ‘ And they asked me to land and go with them 
through the wood to see the view. So I did. I could not 
have landed if I had not been asked, for there is that board 
against trespassers just at the water^s edge. It looks so 
forbidding. Those boards about a place frighten me. I 
would never have them if I owned property. 

She found it easier to talk as she went on, drawing the 
subject away from the central point and entangling it in 
a web of extraneous ideas. 

“I do not want you to become too intimate with the 
Clintons, said Paston, when she paused. 

That web was transparent enough to him; and as flimsy 
as transparent. A past-master in the knowledge of human 
nature, the tender subtleties of girl-nature also were under- 
stood by him; and* he saw through the little feint as clearly 
as he caught the trouble of the moment. He did not see 
into the real meaning of that trouble, but connected it with 
himself in the vague way of even acute people when pre- 
occupied with foregone conclusions. 

But could I have refused, father, when they asked me 
to land?^^ said Yetta, gently. 

‘‘ Why did you go there at all?^^ he asked, suspiciously. 

It is too great a distance for you at any time; and in 
this hot weather it might be dangerous. 

“The row all the way up the river is so lovely, and 
Heron '’s Pool is such a beautiful place answered Yetta. 

“Yet you went right into the Clinton property!^'’ he 
said, in a strange voice. It was as if he had accused her of 
a grave and willful fault. 

She looked up at him, and their eyes for the first time 
met. His were dark, sharp, suspicious, full of unconcealed 
distrust and uneasiness.. Hers were a little darker, too, than 
in general; also full of uneasiness; but with surprise under- 
neath their soft confession of something not quite square — 
and consequent pleading for pardon — which made them 
absolutely irresistible. 

“Hot right, into it,^^ she said. “ The other side — the 
left side — of the pool is Mr. Standish^s, you know, and free 
to the public. The Clinton property begins only at the 


124 


PASTON CAREW. 


wear — I mean their exclusive right to the river. Only half 
of Heron’s Pool is theirs. ” 

Still, I do not want you to be too intimate,” he repeat- 
ed, thinking to himself how well he knew every inch of the 
ground, and to whom belonged the very rocks in the river, 
even the very moss on that stone, almost like an island, 
which stood out at some little distance from the Five Oaks; 
shore — that stone where the globe-flowers grew in spring 
and the rare sweet pyrola in summer. “ Be careful,” he 
continued. ‘‘ Do not let them think you want to know 
them. It is they who must court you. Remember that, 
child — they must court you, not you them!”^ 

I do not think I could court any one, excepting Mrs. 
Ellacombe,” she answered, with a smile. “ But what am 
I to do, father? I promised to go again — perhaps this day 
week; they asked me, and as I had no reason for refusing, 
I said yes. What am I to do?” 

She said all this with a desperate effort. Never had she 
found speech so difficult, or the ordinary details of her daily 
life so like the confession of sin. 

‘‘ And they asked you? They proposed that you should 
go again and they would meet you?” he then said. 

“ Yes; Mr. Lanfrey and Miss Clinton.” 

“ Who is this Lanfrey?” he asked, knowing as well as 
she could tell him. The fair, slightly built man?” 

“No; that is the elder of the two — Captain Clinton,” 
answered Yetta. “Mr. Lanfrey is the taller, handsomer 
man.” 

“ The elder is the better man,” said Paston, coldly. 

“ Oh, no, father — no!” she said. “ Captain Clinton is 
dreadful! There is something so cruel and flerce about 
him. He looks as if he would like to give pain. He is 
dreadful! His brother is far better — much softer, and with 
far nicer manners. He is a different man altogether — sa 
much gentler and more generous in his nature.” 

“ My daughter has judged quickly,” said Paston. 

He tried to make his smile a sneer, but failed. That 
fresh young life, in which was centered all his love and the 
ultimate of his hopes, must not be travestied by ridicule as 
flowers are touched by frost — must not be saddened by his 
own hard experience, as honey is fermented into acidity. 
The sneer died away, but the smile remained. 

“ Am I very silly, dear father?” asked Yetta, with a 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


125 


heightened color. “ I dare say I am; and I know that it is 
not right to take sudden and baseless dislikes to people. 
But I did to Captain Clinton, almost at first sight — strong- 

“ And not to his brother?^ ^ said her father. 

‘‘No/'’ she answered, steadily. “ I like him and the 
eldest sister very much.^^ 

“ Do not let them see that yon do,^^ he repeated, going 
back on his main thought. “You must be stately and 
frigid, my child. All the advance must come from them. 
You must bring them to your feet; you must make them 
sue for the h»«or of your acquaintance; you must stand 
apart and on a pedestal; you must be the superior, conde- 
scending. Remember all this, as you remember your 
prayers 

“ I will not be forward,^’ returned Yetta, simply. “ But 
what is there between us and the Clintons, father? I see 
there is something not quite straight and right. What is 
it?’^ 

The well-known film came over the fathe/s eyes; and his 
face, which had been eager and sharp during her last words, 
became stony and Egyptian, as he answered, in his cold, 
half-dead way: 

“ How should I know? Perhaps they are annoyed that 
I bought Mock -Beggar, which they had rented between 
them for over forty years; perhaps they grudge me my 
money, or at least my reputed wealth,^' he added, hastily. 
“ Anyhow, they have not shown themselves friendly, and 
I want you to be on your guard. 

“ I will be,^^ said Yetta — “at least, to all the others. 
But these two — this Mr. Lanfrey and his sister — have been 
vei-y friendly to me, so I need not be so cool to them. 

Her ingenuousness touched her fatherfs heart. He held 
out his hand across the table — they sat at right angles to 
each other, not face to face. This arrangement a little 
masked the poverty of the supplies, and brought the sparse 
dishes closer. 

“ You are easy to manage,' my child,^^ he said, tenderly. 
“ I have no fear that you will thwart me.'’^ 

“ No, I never will,^^ said Yetta, kissing his hand, back 
and palm. 

This hand-kissing is not an instinct confined to servile 
women. If it includes respect, it means also love; and 


126 PASTOK CAEEW, 

love envelops as well as inclines — and takes as well as 
gives. 

The conversation was here . interrupted by the servant 
bringing in a small suet-pudding which would not have 
been too much for one person only. It was the ultimate 
of Pastoh^s housekeeping generosity in the way of sweets — 
and Yetta had not yet learned a higher nor more scientific 
dietary. 

After dinner the girl wandered away into the garden, 
taking with her the wild-flowers and her Sowerby, to make 
sure of what she had brought home. She had found some 
the names of which she did not know; and gjie rejoiced in 
the extraordinary interest she felt in her work. She had 
never felt so strong a love for this most fascinating pursuit. 
She had been interested, certainly, but not so enthusiastic 
as to-night; and as she labeled her treasures, and put them 
carefully on the seat beside her — meaning to keep them 
always, as a visible reminder of that lovely view and thi& 
glorious day — she congr§:tulated herself on her steady ad- 
vance in knowledge and her increase of pleasure thereby. 
She wondered why she had not asked Miss Clinton if she 
knew botany. She wished now that she had. It would be 
another link of sympathy between them. Mr. Lanfrey, of 
course, knew all about botany as about everything else. 
She remembered how he had shown her the difference be- 
tween the two honeysuckles — the common and the perfoli- 
ate — and, of course, if he knew this he would know all the 
rest! He was really very nice. What a pity that he was 
Captain Clinton^s brother! — and how odd that he and his 
sister should be Lady Janets children! They were so un- 
like the rest! As indeed they were — having “ thrown 
back to their grandmother, that sweet Martha French 
whose charms had destroyed poor Maurice Clinton’s life, 
yet had not been able to make Humphrey’s wholly a suc- 
cess. 

Paston watched the girl from the window of his private 
room, which gave on to the lawn and commanded the 
approaches to the house. The room itself was protected 
against intrusive eyes by one of those high wicker-work 
blinds wliicli effectually bar inspection from without, but 
are no kind of impediment from within. He did not care 
that all the world should see the barren poverty and inart- 
istic ugliness of his study, as he called this sordid den. All 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. , 127 

the furniture was old, dilapidated, worm-eaten, and second- 
hand. The chairs were those wooden Windsors, such as 
small housekeepers give to their kitchens; the sofa was of 
black horse-hair, worn through in parts to the stuffing, and 
less a seat than a slide. The few books which leaned 
against each other on the unvarnished deal shelves were, 
some without backs, some without covers, while all were 
dog-eared, torn, and tumbled. 

No broker would have given more than a few shillings 
for the whole apparent contents; but in that fire-proof safe, 
built so strongly into the .wall, were bonds and securities 
and jewels which made this miser — this “ amateur pauper 
— the wealthiest man by far of all the Fellshire county — 
which had made him able tj buy society for so far as he 
had gone, and would have made him able to buy a still 
higher grade had he cared to take it. Perhaps he might, 
when he had ruined the Clintons. 

As he sat there, now brooding over Yetta^s little advent- 
ure of to-day, now watching her as she sat under the 
spreading branches of the cedar-tree on the lawn — the ex- 
ultation with which he always regarded her, so suprem#in 
the saintly majesty of her virgin loveliness as she was — was 
mixed with doubt and a little fear. He loved his child — no 
father more and few so much — but he loved also his avarice 
and his schemes of vengeance. He would willingly that 
Maurice, the eldest son, the heir, should fall in love with 
her — should ask her in marriage of him, the old owner^s 
wronged son and cruelly denied heir — should sue, as a man 
might sue for his life, for the hand which should redeem 
his house! from destruction, and once more set the Clintons 
on the highest rung of the social ladder. And he would 
play with him. He would listen to him calmly, quietly, 
without a sign of softening nor yet of repulsion. He would 
be sphinx-like, immovable as an old Egyptian god; he 
would veil his eyes as he knew how; and then he would 
leave him. He would leave him, this fiery-blooded young* 
man — French Clinton^s heir — in the agonies of *doubt, till 
the pride he had sworn to humble had sufficiently abased 
itself. He would make him come back again, and yet 
again — his hot blood seething — his poverty spurring him 
like a sharp goad — his love possessing him as a fire that 
burns the straw; and he himself, Paston Carew, the arbi- 
ter of his fate whose word could slay or save, he would sit 


1.2S , PASTOls CAKEW, 

there like a second Pasht, unmoved, stony, inscrutable, un- 
impassioned. 

And then, when the Clinton crest had been trailed long 
enough in the dust, and the pride of the family had been 
broken into fragments before his knees, he would rise up 
and spurn him as a beggar from his gate — as a dog at his 
teet — spurn him — spurn him — the unsuccessful aspirant 
for the hand of Patty Carew^s granddaughter — the ruined 
gentleman, denied while beseeching the low-born bastard 
for his salvation ! ^ 

Then he would buy the Hall over their heads, as he had 
already bought Mock-Beggar. Their necessities would 
force them to break the entail, and Yetta should be the 
heiress of the oldest estate in the county. And. then he 
would marry her to some great man — perhaps Lord Mas- 
dew; and she would go to court; and her jewels would out- 
shine all others — the oldest of the inherited, the most brill- 
iant of the family heir-looms. And when,, the Clintons 
were falling — falling — to the point where future generations 
would be indistinguishable from the proletariat — would be 
jlSi’t and parcel of the proletariat; having to work for their 
daily bread as his own grandfather had worked — by poverty 
brought, the men to crime and the women to shame, as his 
own mother had been brought — then Yetta should be the 
local queen, and her children would take rank as princes; 
and he and his mother would be avenged! 

Great drops stood on his upper lip as he realized the 
whole details of his scheme. His hands were chnched; all 
the nerves and sinews of his body were strung and tense. 
He felt his will as it were a bar of iron which nothing could 
break ; and imagination was as potent as living reality. 

But should she love this man, what then? There was the 
fear! there the doubt! Her marriage with a Clinton would 
certainly give him also his revenge; but its glory of triumph 
would be weakened by the profit of his foe. Would he have 
the courage and constancy to stand between his child and 
her desire, and deny her to the man she loved?. He knew 
himself. Adamant to all the world beside, he was soft to 
her. She stood almost equal to his wealth in his esteem; 
and higher than all else! Higher than his cherished dreams 
of vengeance?— those dreams which had been his life’s sus- 
tenance for all these years. He did not know; time and 
the event alone could show. 


MILLIOKAIKE AND MISEE. 


129 


Then suddenly he remembered, what for the moment he 
had forgotten — it was not Maurice the elder and the heir, 
but Lanfrey the unconsidered cadet, of whom she had 
spoken in friendliness to-day, and had defended from the 
very slight attack that he, Paston, had made on him. And 
when he remembered this he dropped his face into his 
hands; and for the first time felt the difficulties which en- 
compass the keepers of youth. 

Yet she is so good, so sweet and (Complying!” he said 
to himself, hugging the delusion, so often proved worthless, 
that a father’s wish would be stronger than a lover’s prayer, 
and that filial obedience would carry it over passion and 
romance. “ She is so good, she would not withstand me!” 

As he thought this he again looked through the clear 
tracery of the blind. Sitting there in the soft evening 
light, her lap full of flowers, her sweet face bending over 
her book, her white dress falling in sculpturesque lines 
about her feet and figure, she seemed altogether so ethe- 
realized, so different from the coarse matter of which ordi- 
nary mortals are made — that Paston felt a strange and sud- 
den spasm at his heart, as if she had been her own spiiit, 
or the wraith which presages death. 

I could not lose her!” he said aloud. “ I would yield 
to her! ’ I could not lose her! But it would kill me, and 
my death would be her curse; and I should know that by 
my weakness and my sacrifice I had ruined and not re- 
deemed her. But I could not see her die if my life would 
buy back hers. ” 

Underneath all that fierce passion of revenge — all that 
sordid greed — was hidden this one sweet sacred feeling — 
this one verdurous garden of love blooming in the sterile 
wilderness! 

‘‘ I could not lose her! Between her and me it is I who 
would be the victim !” 

She knew nothing of this fierce debate — this tragedy of 
passion going on so few yards away; and nothing of her 
power over her father. There, in the waning sunlight, 
with her flowers and girlish playing at careful study, she 
sat like some sweet woodland nymph brought frem the ages 
of by-gone romance into the heart of this prosaic time — like 
some, fair soul of womanhood come out from the distant 
Aidann to be the beloved of men. 

She neither knew nor foresaw. Her eyes were held by 

5 


130 PASTO]Sr CAEEW, 

the rosy fingers of youth, and ignorance — its twin; and the 
reserve of maidenhood wrapped round the rest. 

Impelled by the restless fears of his thoughts, Paston 
went out to join her. 

‘‘ Dear father, how sweet of you to come to me!^^ said 
Yetta, when she saw him. 

She stood up to meet him by a few steps, and her fiowers 
fell to the ground. Paston thought of a picture he had 
once seen of a Flora holding fiowers in her lap and letting 
them fall to her feet as she walked. 

“ What is all this rubbish he asked. He was not con- 
temptuous, but playful. 

Wild flowers. I am trying to find out what they are,"*^ 
she answered, picking up those which had fallen — not 
leaving one — not even a flaccid miserable bit of chickw^eed. 
“lam getting so fond of botany,^ ^ she continued. “It 
gives quite a new pleasure to the country to be able to know 
the flowers and things one sees.^^ 

“ There is not much to be made out of them when you 
do know,^^ said Paston. “ This is chick weed, and that is 
plantain. Now, my little girl, how much wiser are you?^^ 

“ Oh, but that is not enough, she said, smiling. “ I 
want to know far more than that! — the botanical name; the 
kind of roots and seeds and leaves they have, and what they 
are all called. 

“ Not content with things as they are? Always the step 
back? — always wanting to know?^^ he said. 

“ Yes, she answered; “I like to know the reason of 
things.-’^ 

“ My daughter must not be a skeptic,-’^ he said, gravely. 

“ Is that skepticism?^ ^ she asked. 

“ Seeking the reason why? — the first step,^^ he answered. 
“ There is so much for which we can find no reason — so 
much that is simply inexplicable, and entangled in mystery 
from end to end; but we have to accept it, all the same! 
We have to live by faith in the larger ends of life. With 
our fellow-creatures only can we use the scalpel and the 
crucible. To them we ought to give no trust — take 
nothing on mere hearsay. But the mysteries of nature — 
and that which is beyond nature — come into a different 
category. 

“ And yet how miserable life would be if we did not trust 
and could not believe in the people we know!^^ said Yetta. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 131 

She was thinking of Ethel Clinton — Ethel, with a kind 
of glorious penumbra about her, unnamed, not distinct,/ 
but something of supreme beauty, and that was not herself. ) 

‘‘ My child, be prodigal in nothing, was his reply. ( 
‘‘ Neither of love nor of money — neither of trust nor of ' 
property. Be thrifty; keep ever in reserve; never expend/ 
your capital; have always a background, a secret hoard, 
both of feeling and of worldly gear. This is the only way : 
in which you will be able to go through life without bank- 
ruptcy in some form or other. ^ ^ 

And yet it is impossible to live without loving, said 
Yetta, ingenuously. 

“ As impossible, to a certain extent, as to live without 
eating,-’^ was his reply. “ For all that, you need not be a 
gourmand, and spend your fortune, like another A pici us, 
on your table. Nor need you give alt of yourself in love to 
any one. ^ ’ 

“ Not even to you, father she said, with a caressing 
smile and the sweetest intonation. It was such a bit of 
transparent coaxing, such an evident little note of filial 
flattery! 

“ To me?^^ he said, also smiling. Then his face con- 
tracted, and a look of pain came over the flrst pleasure. 

To me?^^ he repeated. “ Ah! that will not last long. 
The young for the young — we elders are only stop-gaps re- 
movable at pleasure; to be set aside like empty bowls when 
the fresh wine comes in. ^ ^ 

“ You will never be set aside by me, father, said Yetta, 
move moved than she understood why. 

She felt, without being able to explain, the arid, painful 
nature of her father’s life — how barren it was of beauty, 
how desolate of joy. She dimly divined, without clearly dis- 
cerning, how his avarice — and something more than avarice 
— had corroded his heart and eaten away the very substance 
of his better self. She was becoming so far conscious in that 
she was pained, but not as yet turned away, by his shame- 
ful greed; but with this very faint revulsion was growing 
up a deep and tender pity, she did not know why. Eich, 
honored, respected, courted — what was there to pity in 
her father’s life? She could not say — beyond the patent 
loss of his wife, her own beautiful young mother, whom he 
had never re]3laced. But she felt for him as for one 


132 


PASTON CAREW, 


secretly stricken with some terrible malady which he en- 
dures in silence, and hides from the world. 

While she spoke she laid her left hand on his arm. He 
passed his little finger over its outlines — that long, fair, 
beautifully modeled hand, with the blue veins showing in 
penciled lines beneath the skin. 

“ It will have to go,^^ he said to himself rather than to 
her. “ It is what I have worked for all these years — to 
keep it to myself. But it will have to goi’^ 

“ Perhaps not,^’ said Yetta, more lightly. “ You may 
have to keep it always, father, till it gets to be as old and 
withered as — whose shall I say? — that old gamekeeper^ s 
we met in the wood to-day!^’ 

“ What gamekeeper?’^ "asked Paston, his nostrils dilated 
and his eyes filmed. 

“ The Clintons’ — Jim Sherwood they call him,” answered 
Yetta, innocently. 

‘‘ Did you speak to him?” he asked again, still tracing 
with his little finger the veins and outlines of that fair 
hand. 

‘‘ No; he only took off his cap, and Mr. Clinton said 
good-morning,” she replied, seeing nothing either in the 
question or the circumstance to think twice about. 

‘‘ And ;your hand will one day become as withered as 
his?” he went on, reverting to the last point; “ and will 
always remain with me?” 

“ Perhaps,” she said, with a little laugh. “ Every girl 
does not marry. There must be some old maids — why not 
I as well as another?” 

“ No,” he returned, in quite his natural manner. The 
reticence and reserve he had just recommended to her he 
practiced in his own life, and was no more prodigal of 
emotion than he was of the housekeeping supplies, or the 
flowers he allowed to be gathered in the garden. ‘ ‘ Every 
girl indeed does not marry, as you say, but I fancy you 
will, my dear. Only daughters have more chance than 
where a man, marrying one, carries on his back half a 
dozen, and is saddled with a family of sisters, to whom he 
has to be the protector and perhaps the purse-bearer for 
the remainder of his natural life. And you, Yetta, will 
not have a chance, but a choice. We must take care that 
this choice shall be worthy of you. ” 

She did not answer. It was really not very exhilarating 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


133 


to discuss her hypothetical marriage. She was so happy as 
she was, she did not desire' a change. Conscious of her 
present tranquillity, she was unwilling to even imagine' the 
time when the kaleidoscope should be shaken and the 
wedding-ring should come in the plaee of the snood. And 
she was not of the kind which dwells on the thought of 
marriage; which draws fancy portraits of angelic men as 
the beloved of the future; which looks for Prince Charming 
and listens for Sir Lancelot. She was not, that is to say, a 
girl of temperament, as the French call it; but would give 
by choice and deliberate free-will, not to be taken by the 
force of her own instinct. 

“ And when' the time comes, he went on to say, speak- 
ing almost indifferently, but looking at her keenly from 
imder his bended brows, “ you must let me choose for you.. 
The final decision must rest with me, for parents are the 
best judges for their daughters. 

Again she did not answer. The still evening air seemed 
full of protesting voices, and her own heart withheld the 
promise. A promise was a sacred things Made, it must 
be kept, and she felt that she could not keep this. 

“ Will you not give me your word on this, Yetta?'’^ her 
father asked, almost sternly. 

“ Why speak about such things, dear?^^ she answered, 
evasively. ‘‘ When the time comes we can discuss it all, 
but now — 

You hold yourself in reserve,^^he said. “Is your 
confidence in me already shaken?^'’ 

“ Dearest father,” she answered, “ when we love we love, 
and — 

“ And throw duty, piety, filial obedience, father, and 
God, like broken idols, in the dust!” he said. “ It is for 
this reward we fathers live. We toil and gather and hoard 
for another man^s use. We lose all our years of care and 
love at the first touch of an instinct shared with the animals 
and dignified by the name of love!'^ 

“ I love no one but you,” she said, in a low voice. 

“ But you will! you will! And then you will desert and 
disobey me!” 

“ Is it not happier to think that if ever the day comes 
when I shall love another but you, you will be glad of my 
choice and will approve it?” she asked, soothingly, terrified 


134 


PASTON CAKEW, 


by this strange outburst which was so unlike her father^s 
usual self. 

Just then an owl hooted from the ivy. 

That is my answer/' said Paston, with a sudden 
shiver. • His lips were dry, and something akin to terror 
crossed his face. ‘‘ When you talk of my approval, an owl 
replies — the most ill-omened of all birds." 

‘‘ Let us look at the stars and forget the owls," she made 
answer, laying her hand on her father's, and kissing it as 
she had kissed it at dinner — back and palm. 

Ah, my child!" said Paston, with infinite sadness; 
‘‘ the happier you make me now by your fondness and 
affection, the more pain you are preparing for me when the 
day comes when you will disobey me and force me to re- 
nounce you." 

That day will never come," she answered; ‘‘for you 
shall love where Ido, and my choice shall be yours. " 

Again the owl hooted from the ivy, and again Paston 
Carew, the strong man who had broken lives and fortunes 
as if they had been bulrushes by the water's edge, shivered 
and started. 

“ Let us go in," he said, hurriedly. “ It is too late for 
you to be out, Yetta. Come in and give me some music." 

“lam so glad you like my music, father," said Yetta, 
once more gathering up her fiowers and book. ’“It is im- 
possible to keep up music by one's self only, if no one cares 
to hear it," she went on to say, glad to change the conver- 
sation and divert its current. 

“ David must have liis Saul," he answered. 

“ And the other way too," she replied. “ Saul must 
have his David, else all things will go wrong. " 

“lam content with the parallel, if you will be my faith- 
ful David," said Paston, quietly, as the}' stepped through 
the open window into the small drawing-room where the 
piano stood. 

There she played and sung to him for a full hour in the 
dark. “ She did not want a lamp for that," he said; “ the 
blind could play what they knew — while he went over the 
roll-call of his possessions; calculating, adding up, appor- 
tioning, till he had soothed himself into his moral quietude. 
It was the best anodyne he had. When all others failed, 
this was always potent. 

When the hour was passed he went up to his daughter 


MILLIOKAIRE AKD 3IISER. 


135 


and thanked and praised her, as if she had been a stranger, 
his courtesy tilling her heart with a melody more sweet 
than that she had made for him. It was this high-bred, 
half-stately kind of politeness and courtesy which made 
her forget and overlook so much that was not sympathetic 
to her in her father^s nature. He never degenerated into 
the slipshod usages of domestic life. His scraggy mutton- 
bone had to be served with dignity; his bare table had to 
be set out with glass and plate; his daughter was his child, 
but she was always a lady; and he would not have tolerated 
that any one should have seen him as he was when alone, 
or that others should fail in the nicest observances of court- 
esy and breeding. He might degenerate into one of those 
beggarly misers who dress in rags and live on crusts. But 
his r^s would be clean, and, his crust eaten off a plate. 

With this act of praise and expression of thanks the 
evening closed and Yetta went to bed with the feehng of 
something momentous having happened to-day — thinking 
now of Ethel, always with that splendid penumbra, that 
glowing corona of light about her — now of her father and 
his strange endeavor to make her promise that he should 
choose her husband. 

But long after she had gone to bed and was fast asleep, 
Paston sat in his miserable study, where the windows and 
doors were as strongly barred as if it would have to with- 
stand a siege, now ciphering sums on scraps of paper, now 
laying out his dirty tarots in bunches of threes, which he 
then turned up as if they were so many little pages of a 
book to be read. They were dumb oracles to-night. He 
could get nothing out of them. Confused, contradictory 
beyond the possibility of interpretation, they seemed to 
mock his endeavor to spell the message of his future. He 
could no more rouse dead Pan than he could get any intel- 
ligible answer from his cards. But their confusion was in 
itself a sign; and Sorrow is before me,^^ said Paston 
Carew, slowly creeping to bed in the small three-cornered 
room which had once served him and Yetta for their dwell- 
ing-room. He had made it now his bed-chamber, because 
it was on the ground-floor and opened into his study, and 
thus allowed him to mount nightly guard over his safe and 
its treasure— that loaded revolver on the unused pillow 
beside him. 


136 


PASTON CAKEW, 


CHAPTER XVL 

THE PICHIC AT FEEi^DALE ABBEY. 

In' country places abrujDt invitations are the rule, and 
parties of pleasure are got up at shorter notice than is pos- 
sible in towns, where the social net has a trick of letting 
the great fish slip through its meshes unless caught be- 
times and closely gripped, and pearls have to be dived for 
with long lines. Fitz- George Standish, then, organized one 
of these sudden gatherings — a picnic to Ferndale Abbeys — 
as a beneficent relief from those eternal tennis-parties, 
which, to his way of thinking, were such graceless 
abominations. A picnic, on the contrary, was a fair-seem- 
ing show and a goodly diversion. A number of knights 
and ladies, leaning in melancholy attitudes against tree- 
trunks, gracefully reclining on the grass among ferns and 
flowers, or walking in stately couples through forest glades, 
making love of the kind which sighs in a sonnet and is re- 
warded with a ribbon — these made a pageant fair to the eye 
and elevating to the fancy. If only the hideous nineteenth- 
century costume could have been exchanged for something 
mediseval and mosaic; and if only apple blossoms could 
have flushed the boughs in July, and Iseult might have list- 
ened to Tristram beneath the pink and not the green — 
the pageant would then have been perfect. Still, with 'all 
its short-comings, a picnic at Ferndale Abbey was better 
than jumping uj) at a ball struck across a net; and Fitz- 
George Standish looked on his as much in the light of a 
protest and a i^attern as of a pleasure. 

Hence it came about that Yetta^s engagement to gather 
wild-flowers for the second time in the forbidden and en- 
chanted ground by Heron '’s Pool, with Lanfrey and Ethel 
Clinton to give her countenance and protection— the home 
authorities notwithstanding — was set aside in favor of one 
to eat veal- pie and raspberry- tart with all Beaton Brows in 
the cleared space by the river which ran through the Fern- 
dale woods. 

The old abbey was one of those places which attest the 
practical wisdom of the religious orders. Vowed to pov- 
erty and asceticism, no body of men were ever keener to 


MILLIOKAIKE AKD MISER. 


137 


discover nor more eager to enjoy the best that life could 
give. Wherever they settled they chose an outlying acre 
of paradise, and took care that aspect and beauty should be 
perfect. Fertile land and facile harvests — a river for trout- 
fishing on the sunless days and to feed the carp pond at all 
times — the gentle slope, lying to the south, for the garden 
of herbs and fruit-trees — the home meadows of sweet rich 
grass for the pasturing of the kine— the radiant valley— 
the scented woods — do we not all know the circumstances 
surrounding these old abbeys? And this of Ferndale was 
no exception to the rule. Open to the south and west — • 
protected from the north and east — it caught all the sun 
our churlish Northern skies have to give. In its sheltered 
places were nooks where even those who have followed 
Theocritus, and dreamed of love beneath Sicilian skies, 
might feel their warmed blood flow like the glad gods' ichor 
in their veins — where imagination roused, as the senses 
were lulled, could conjure up those visions of beauty which 
make life a charm and pain a forgotten dream. 

Thanks to our modern Saint, the place was now 23ro- 
tected and kept in order. There was no more carting away 
of the fallen blocks of old red sandstone which once had 
made the arches and the walls — blocks just handy for the 
pig-sty or the byre a-buikling hard by; no more bold ab- 
duction of the saint's head which had smiled as a corbel, 
of the demon who had grinned as a gargoyle; no more 
chipping away a rose or a leaf from the floral tracery round 
the skeletonized window, to be placed among the litter of 
an amateur's museum, and labeled ‘‘ From Ferndale Ab- 
bey," as if theft were the evidence of artistic perception. 
The curator, who held the keys and looked after the visit- 
ors, was responsible for the conservation of all that time 
and peculation had left; and the place was kept in good 
order throughout. The grass that had taken the place of 
the pavement which pious feet had trodden in daily proces- 
sion so many generations ago was freshly mown and soft 
and green; the flowers which had rooted themselves on the 
ledges and in the crevices of the crumbling walls— snaj)- 
dragon and wall-flowers, ivy-leafed toad-flax with its cas- 
cades of leaves and foam of flowers, bittersweet and red 
valerian, stone-crop and livelong — were preserved as if 
they had been exotics jDlanted with cost and tended vrith 
care, rather than wildings brought by the wind and nour- 


33 « 


PASTOif CAKEW, 


ishecT by nature only. Everywhere the ravages of the 
Great Destroyer were arrested, and the eclax rerum was 
balked of his gluttony. But Fitz-George Standish, true to 
his foolish school which falls foul of all modern action in 
art matters, be it for care or neglect, said the place looked 

smug,^' and how much more beautiful would it have 
been if left to the generous wildness of chance and the 
melancholy beauty of decay. 

A curse lies on this godless generation,^^ he said to 
Mr. Harcourt, as they went through the gates and into the 
great aisle of the ruined church. “ It has been struck 
with judicial blindness, and can see neither God nor 
beauty; it knows as little of art as it does of holiness. 

So much worse than our forebears, Standish?^^ lisped 
the rector, blandly. ‘‘ I fancy, now, that if we were to 
get hold of the secret books of those old fellows, we should 
find more than one scandal judiciously burked, more than 
one injustice tyrannously maintained. Human nature has 
much the same substance, whether crowned or cowled ; and 
for the most part it is distance which lends enchantment. 
The unknown, you know, is always the magnificent.^^ 

You uphold this age and century said Fitz-George, 
dolorously. “You uphold the men who scrape the walls 
of the Coliseum, renovate St. Markus, build churches like 
barns, with spires like pepper-pots, and can find no better 
model for their factories than the hideous nightmares we 
know of?^^ 

“ Frustra labor at qui omnibus placer e studet,” said the 
rector, blandly. “ If the bones of the Coliseum were to 
be preserved, they must have been scraped bare of all that 
devouring flesh of verdure; if St. Markus is not to fall in 
ruins, it must be renovated betimes; if the laity do not 
care for the glory of God, as set forth by worthy archi- 
tecture, they must have barns and pepper-pots as all that 
can be compassed by their subscriptions; and factories at 
least answer their purpose, and offer images of virile sim- 
plicity adapted to their work.^' 

“ Oh!"^ protested Fitz-George Standish, with a kind of 
groan; and the rector, saying with mock humility, “ I ac- 
knowledge that I am only a clown in these matters, where 
you are a belted knight; still, a clown is understood of bis 
kind, and Don Quixote ^s language was a trifle over his 


MILLIOKAIKE AND MISER. 139 

hearers^ heads/ ^ passed on to shake hands with Mrs. Ella- 
combe and gently satirize their host. 

For a man of his principles it might have seemed a dese- 
cration to use these sainted precincts for such a purely 
secular purpose as a picnic; but Mr. Standish compounded 
with his conscience by half- measures, as we are all so apt 
to do, and made the ruins serve only for the prologue of 
meeting, talk, and love-making, while the cleared hit of 
wood by the river was the scene of the active drama — the 
dinner. The old abbey, with its splendor of coloring and 
grace of line, made ideal frames for the living pictures that 
unconsciously composed themselves against the background 
of green and red; but it framed nothing more beautiful, to 
Fhz-George^s mind, than the sweet fair face and form of 
Yetfca Carew. He saw her as the Lady Abbess, with the 
white band across her brow, and her long robe of virgin 
blue, come with her attendant nuns to confer on holy mat- 
ters affecting discipline and doctrine with my Lord the 
Bishop, or perchance the Pa23al Legate; or haply as the 
chatelain of the neighboring castle, in coif and wimple 
and rich attire of samite gem-bedecked, lighting from her 
palfrey to crave the blessing of the abbot, and by his bless- 
ing the protection of Heaven. She was the true genius of 
this sacred spot; and had he wanted an excuse for his en- 
tertainment he would have found it in her. For as there 
is always a highest light in every j^ainting, so in all as- 
semblies of people is there the Best — sometimes the only 
one. Alas for the mutability of things human and the in- 
constancy of even knightly fancies! Yetta was now the 
Best to Fitz-George Standish, and Elsie Arrol was rapidly 
passing away into that shadowy limbo where lie the dis- 
carded dolls and broken idols of our days of darkness! That 
ghastly folly of Petrarch and Laura suddenly showed itself 
for what it was. It was like tainted sugar which, at first 
sweet, turns to bitterness in the mouth by time. He saw 
the banker’s wife as one, waking from an opium dream, 
recognizes in the shapes and sounds of beauty that had 
thronged around him things of the sordid every-day, 
transformed by fever to divinity; as Charlemagne in the 
ages long ago, when the charm was taken from beneath 
the tongue, saw the decaying corpse where he had caressed 
the beloved woman. His pink, round, plump little Laura 
was a sham. She was only Cicely, the dairy-maid, at a fancy 


140 


PASTOK CAREW, 


ball. His devotion to her was a sham ; it was but another 
name for idleness, and the offspring of affectation. The 
whole round of mock-heroics, mock-sestheticism, to which 
he had subscribed his allegiance, was a sham ; and the only 
truth worth living for was embodied in this simple, sweet, 
and serious girl, who was and did not pretend to be — ^his 
Beatrice transferred from Florence and the poetic past to 
Beaton Brows and the hateful nineteenth century — which, 
however, she vvent far to redeem. 

But an association once made is difficult to break. It 
binds us like a hasty promise given in the morning to 
prove our disaster in the evening. It may be as flimsy as 
gossamer, and grow to be as painful as a thorn pricking 
the flesh; but it is a fact; and facts have their own vital- 
ity, however unreal the basis. This silly pretense of pla- 
tonic love and devoted knighthood could not be scattered, 
by a new desire, like a seeded thistle caught by the winds. 
It must linger out its time, moribund and decaying as it 
might be. And Fitz-George Standish had still to devote 
himself to Elsie Arrol, as he had done for the last four 
years, and as she expected him to do to the end. But while 
his feet went one way his eyes went another; and when he 
smiled in that painful manner of his, which made it more 
a gash than a smile, he groaned inwardly, and mentally 
devoted the banker^ s wife — sad-green dress, purfled trim- 
mings, false media3valism and all — to the infernal deities 
which seemed to have taken possession of. himself. > Then, 
being a good kind of man if but a weak brother and par- 
cel-fool, he took shame to himself that he had failed his 
established folly, and did his best to salve over his con- 
science by an increase of absurdity — which but repeated 
and strengthened the sham in which he was already bound 
as by bands of iron. 

Meanwhile Yetta, profoundly unconscious of the small 
tempest mutely raging in this meek heart, kept dutifully 
close to Mrs. Ellacombe, who had chaperoned her. Paston 
preferred to remain at home, having business on hand he 
desired to arrange — business which included the arrival 
from London of a box of gold and notes, into which he 
thrust his hands as if they had been so many scented flow- 
ers from the Tree of Life. 

Yetta was beginning to feel the sweet summers day sul- 
try and oppressive, the beautiful red ruins dull and lifeless. 


MILLION’AIRE AND MISER. 


141 


the people uninteresting, Mrs. Harcourt intolerable with 
her prods and Mr. Harcourt a bore with his sarcasms — be- 
ginning to wish that she had remained at home with her 
father, as perhaps she ought to have done — when the Clin- 
tons drove, up; and it was as if the castle of the Sleeping 
Beauty suddenly woke to life, and the stagnant’ waters 
broke their barriers and were set a-fiowing. How handsome 
their old murrey-colored liveries were! What a w^onderful 
point of color they made in the landscape! and how glad 
she was to recognize the stunted stature and creeping, 
mouse-like step of Ethel! 

They came in full force — the four girls, accompanied by 
their mother. Lady Jane — with the two young men follow- 
ing in their buggy. French, like Paston, preferred his 
home business to this alfresco repast shared with wasps 
and spiders; and, meanwhile, worried and interrupted the 
workmen, to all of whom he held himself able to give les- 
sons on the best method of doing their business, from lay- 
ing on the mortar to- sketching the elevation. But as he 
g'ave them lashins of bread and beer after he had exasper- 
ated them all round, they forgave him before the day was 
out, and pronounced him a real gentleman at bottom, 
although he was as sly as a natter-jack and as teddious as 
a blue- jemmy. 

W^hen Lady Jane and her party came through the gate 
and into the grand aisle where all the rest were assembled, 
there was that soft flutter of garments and subdued 
modulation of voices which mark the arrival of personages. 
The Clintons were always tfie Clintons at Beaton Brows; 
and no usurper could dispossess them, as no failure among 
themselves would degrade them. Smudge, rent, lapse, 
fracture — what did it signify? The oil in the ampoule may 
be rancid; it none the less creates the LoixPs anointed. 
Zenobia, captive, was still their queen to the Palmyrans, 
if but a poor fettered slave to the Romans, clanking her 
golden fetters as she walked by the conqueror^s triumi^hal 
car. And Lady Jane—their Lady Paramount — was re- 
ceived by all this festive congregation as reverently as if in- 
deed of a different flesh and blood from the rest. Mr. 
Harcourt lisped and satirized; Mrs. Harcourt went briskly 
forward, her haste expressing the coalescence of equality, 
as it were two drops of quicksilver running together on the 
plate; and Fitz-George ‘Mouted low,'' bringing his soft 


142 


PASTON CAREW. 


felt hat down to his knees with a sweep suggestive of 
plumes and t3rpifying homage. Elsie Arrol, too, shouldered 
her way in among the first ranks, in her stolid, round-eyed 
unconsciousness of intrusion, walking with short steps and 
on her heels, as her manner was, while making her 
courtesy with as much exaggeration as Petrarch had made 
his reverence. Sharp, matter-of-fact, unassthetic Lady 
Jane received this affectation, with scarcely veiled contempt 
for Elsie, with the same contempt, greatly attenuated, for 
Eitz-George. Five Oaks was a charming place; and noth- 
ing takes the nonsense out of a man like a practical moth- 
er-in-law. Mr. Standish was a fool, as she often said, but 
under proper management he might be made available: 
and husbands of rank and means convenient for the four 
scantily dowered girls at the Hall were at a premium. 
AVherefore she greeted this ape of aestheticism — this 
medieval “ masher and modernized Euphues — with 
more cordiality than she felt for himself personally, though 
not with more affection than she felt for his fields and 
farms. 

Neither the first among the eager, nor the last as if re- 
luctant, Mrs.. Ellacombe,, bided her time to welcome their 
local queen on this her first appearance in a party of pleas- 
ure since the tragedy which had isolated her and hers from 
the world. She was standing at a little distance from my 
lady’s more immediate court — Yetta Oarew by her side, as 
radiant as the blue sky beaming overhead. While standing 
there, waiting her turn and biding her time, Lanfrey and 
Ethel broke through the little throng and came up to her 
and Yetta — Lanfrey glad to have this opportunity for what 
was essentially a public manifesto and private protest, and 
Ethel following his example — in fear and trembling of the 
consequences truly, but heroically loyal to the cause and 
its leader. The other girls merely bowed — each stiffer and 
more glacial than the other. Maurice, his face aflame, did 
not come near, and contented himself with lifting his hat; 
but Lanfrey shook hands and spoke to Paston Carew’s 
daughter with evident pleasure and marked cordiality, and 
his face was the text on which more than one embroidered 
a commentary. 

Lady Jane, at times conveniently short-sighted, put up 
her broad-framed, tortoise-shell glasses, and stared at the 
little group as if she did not know her own children. She 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


143 


looked full at Yetta, not twenty feet away, with that fixed 
stare which presupposes ignorance for the one part, and in- 
sensibilitjr for the other. Tfce girks treacherous cheeks 
burned like scorching roses, but she made the best of 
things. She did not falter nor become shamefaced for all 
her treacherous blush, but went on speaking to Lanfrey and 
Ethel as lightly as if they were her friends assigned by the 
fitness of things, and not foes ordained by a fate of which 
she knew the action only, not the source. 

Really the 'situation was becoming strained to absurdity! 
thought the guests. Here were the Carews, established, 
received, part of the acknowledged society of Beaton Brows; 
and for Lady Jane to ignore Miss Carew as if she did not 
know her, was as iniquitous as boycotting, of which it was a 
form. Why should she put up those hideous glasses and 
stare at the poor girl as if she were a doll without feeling, 
or a savage without knowledge? Why should she pretend 
not to know her, when she saw her every Sunday at church, 
and knew her as well as she knew the pulpit or her prayer- 
book? While Mr. Lanfrey and Miss Clinton were speaking 
quite like friends — almost more than friends, if the young 
man^s face might be read as one reads an inventory — why 
should the other young ladies bow, with mouths that sug- 
gested vinegar and lemon-juice, and Captain Clinton look 
like a hostile turkey-cock, with his face aflame in that ex- 
traordinary way? 

So thought the guests, not disinclined to find fault with 
even their sacred lady when she went too far and trod on 
the heels of folly. The reverse, indeed, of disinclined ; for 
nowhere does snobbery avenge itself so cruelly as in Eng- 
land, where the idol of Rank is both worshiped and vilified 
— treated as the Neapolitans treat their saints — prayed to, 
• flattered, and feted one day; sworn at and beaten with rods 
the next. 

Mrs. Ellacombe thought the best thing she could do for 
all concerned was to end this sorry pretense, and set things 
fairly foot to foot. 

She took the girBs hand in hers and said: ^ 

‘‘ Let me present Miss Carew, Lady Jane. She is in a 
manner my adopted child. 

‘‘ I was just going to introduce her, mother, said Lan- 
frey, hurriedly. 

Lady Jane would fain have reduced her son to cinders by 


144 


PASTOK CAREW^ 


a look which all could read; but, caught in the net- work of 
social decorum, she was forced to yield to circumstances, 
and to accept the introduction without an overt disclaimer, 
if without cordiality — contenting herself with staring hard 
and saying abruptly: 

Is this your first visit to Ferndale Abbey 
“ hs'o/'’ said Yetta; I have been here before with my 
father/^ 

The exquisite melody of the girFs voice, heard for the 
first time, fell on Lady Jane/s ears with unpleasant sur- 
prise. She was angry with herself in that she, had to 
acknowledge this new charm, having already to confess a 
beauty which she did her best to comfort herself by saying 
was of an unbeautiful type. She felt like the prophet called 
to curse and compelled to bless instead. Standing there in 
that warm summer sunshine, she had the strange feeling 
of darkness and inward chill which comes from unconfessed 
hostility. It was not the violence of anger, nor the warmth 
of combat, but just the dead cold of enmity. She would 
have liked to say something rude, cutting, sarcastic — some- 
thing that should abash this unwelcome intruder, and 
punish her for the sin of her father ^s birth. As she had no 
opening compatible with self-respect, all she could do was 
to turn away sharply, with a curious little half -strangled 
noise; and Yetta felt that she had displeased Lanfrey Olin- 
ton^s mother, she did not know how. Before she had time 
to come to an understanding with herself, she was called 
away from her own thoughts by Lanfrey^s voice saying 
pleasantly: 

Have you been over the ruins. Miss Carew? Ho you 
understand all about them?^’’ 

“ I am sure you do not,^^ chimed in Ethel; “ so come 
with us, and we will explain them to you.^^ 

With pleasure, said Yetta, glad to escape from an 
atmosphere which she felt to be dangerously charged with 
electricity; and with a smile to Mrs. Ellacombe, who had 
found a seat on the top of a broken pillar, the girl passed 
under the archway with her two companions, and felt as if 
she could once more breathe freely. 

But she took the sunshine with her from Fitz-George 
Standish; and though Maurice was quite sure he hated her, 
as a loyal Clinton should, he hated his brother still more in 
that he had again taken the kernel for his own share, and 


MILLIONAIEE Ai^D MISER. 145 

been bold and rebellious where he himself had been true to 
his creed and stanch to his order. 

Fitz-George Standish was right — a picnic is really a very 
picturesque affair. Grant the long-legged harvest-men and 
invisible midges which come out of space and vanish as you 
pursue — ^grant the earwigs and the wasps, the prying ants 
and the sluggish horse-flies — the whole thing is nevertheless 
pre-eminently suggestive, and more than any other method 
of association, lends itself to pi-etty groupings and pleasant 
combinations. 

There was a Bohemian kind of look about this picnic of 
to-day which almost justified the master of Five Oaks in 
his aesthetic foolishness. The young people who had paired 
off^into couples as they strolled about the ruins, probably 
discussing the last tennis match or the coming tournament, 
looked like lovers quoting Dante and following after 
Rosetti. Those who had gathered into knots embodied the 
idea of gallantry, recalling Pampinea “ la Reina of the 
joyous Ten, and reproducing Fiammetta. The men were 
all gallant, the women all gracious, and Time had borrowed 
the wings of Love. But among the little groups which had 
separated themselves from the main body, that formed by 
Lanfrey, Ethel, and Yetta, was the most beautiful and the 
most important. 

Wherever she went, the tall girl, in her simple soft white 
gown, carried the sun with her and ' made as it were an 
island of light and flowers. iVnd wherever Lanfrey went 
he carried with him the beauty of a noble personality. 
EtheFs very humility and gentleness gave her a special 
charm, lovely in its own way; and in the friendship that 
had sprung up between them and their hereditary foe were 
the elements of a drama of which time alone would show 
the ending — whether the curtain would ring down on a 
tragedy, or to the sound of the mellow golden bells. 

At present that drama was not moving very rapidly. A 
talk on ethics does not carry young people at a hand-gallop 
into the depths of emotion. It has its tendency, all the 
same. Roads must be must be made before they can be 
traveled on, and the most exquisite golden chariot can not 
career in mid-air. 

‘‘ I do not go so far as Mr. Standish, but I always feel 
that these old fellows left much to be regretted, and som'e- 
thing to be imitated,"^ said Lanfrey, as they settled them- 


PASTON CAREW, 


UG 

selves in an angle open to the sky, where once had been 
the high groined roof and sculptured niches of the Lady 
Chapel. We have not gained on all sides by our de- 
struction of the religious orders. 

No?’"’ said Yetta, who thought we had. But is not 
England more advanced than the Homan Catholic countries 
where they still exist? I do not know anything about it, 
because I have never been abroad, but I have always un- 
derstood so. 

I do not want to see a revival of Eoman Catholicism 
here in England,^ ^ said Lanfrey, but I should like to see 
more earnestness in those who believe at all, and more 
quietness of living and working. The old monasteries were 
grand asylums for delicate souls and frail bodies. Cowper 
and Charles Lamb were both monks manques; and how 
many of our social failures and intellectual martyrs would 
have lived in peace, and cultivated their powers to perfec- 
tion, could they have taken refuge in the cloisters 

Yetta did not answer. She turned her soft eyes on the 
speaker with a look that expressed assent but confessed to 
ignorance — and with this ignorance pleasure at being- 
taught by him. 

'/ou not feel the difference between modern practice 
and profession?” he asked, in answer to her look. “ Do 
you not feel the want of simplicity even in those who are 
most sincere? We* play too much to the gallery. There 
is too liftle reticence, too little quietness, in our lives. We 
plant our acorns with a blare of trumpets, and are always 
showing the rooting of our saplings. If we give a guinea 
subscription we publish it in the newspapers, and commend 
our ostentation under the disguise of encouragement and 
example. We make too much fuss about everything. That 
is the plain English of it. ” 

‘‘ How can it be helped?” asked Yetta. 

‘‘We can help it only in our own persons,” he answered. 
“ Those of us who care to do and not to prate can alwavs 
find a path of modest action across the jungle of publicity. 
In every place and in all circumstances silent and useful 
work can be done by those who wish to do it.” 

Her heart beat rapidly. 

“ What could I do here at Beaton Brows?” she asked. 

He looked at her, and there rose to his mind a picture of 
this gracious creature working among the poor — how her 


. MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


147 


very presence would bring to those sordid homes a sense of 
beauty and purity, of infinite value — how she would be like 
Aurora chasing the dark and scattering flowers as she passedl 
by. He was on the point of breaking out into a passionate 
exhortation, when suddenly his thoughts died down to the 
roots and his enthusiasm fell blank. W hat if she got harm 
in her own person? Philanthropy, self-sacrifice, devotion 
to a cause, were all right and holy — but Yetta Carew was 
of greater value still. Her one life was more precious than 
the lives of many, and her well-being outweighed the good 
of a multitude. 

He looked at her with eyes that changed from the fiery 
brightness of enthusiasm to the tenderness of a man who 
finds a woman beautiful, and desires to protect and defend 
her from all harm. 

‘‘ You?’ ^ he said. ‘‘Nothing!” 

“ That is unkind,” said Yetta, hotly. “ Do you think 
me so weak and selfish, so poor in spirit and wanting in 
energy, that I can do nothing to help others?” 

Tears came into her eyes, and her beautiful mouth 
quivered. 

“What could you do, dear Miss Carew?” asked Ethel, 
gently. “ There are more volunteers for parish work than 
can be employed, as things are. You would find every post 
already occupied. Besides, you are not strong enough.” 

“ I, not strong enough.^” echoed Yetta. “ Why, I am a 
perfect Hercules! I have never anything the matter with 
me.” 

Brother and sister smiled. 

“ I think you would find your lion’s skin not much 
stouter than so much satin, if you tested it, ” laughed Lan- 
frey. “But,” he added, “if you want to know what is 
doing at Beaton Brows, ask Mrs. Ellacombe. She is in the 
center of it all. Mr. Harcourt, as you know, is not too 
zealous. ’ ’ 

“ She is an angel!” said Yetta, warmly. “ She is the 
only woman who ever seemed to me like a possible mother. ” 

“ And you have taken the place of a daughter to her,” 
said Ethel. 

“ No one would be such a good adviser for you in all 
things as she,” said Lanfrey; “ excepting myself,” he add- 
ed, with a sudden flush he tried to laugh away, and did 
not. 


148 


PASTON CAREW, 


Ethel turned cold and sick and pale. There ran through 
her heart a deadly throb of jealousy which was as painful 
as a blow — as painful as death. With one suiDreme effort 
she conquered it, as if it had been a living snake she 
strangled, and lapng her hand on Yetta^s arm, said warm- 
ly: “ You must make your life here a success — you must 
conquer everything and be haj^pyl^^ 

“ You shall, said Lanfrey. 

“ I hope so,” she replied, stirred, wondering in the dark 
as to what they mean, and she felt but conscious of some- 
thing that touched the hidden depths, when, just at 
this moment of vague agitation — EtheEs hand on Yetta^s 
arm; Lanfrey looking into her face with eyes dark and 
tender, her own eyes dropped, and her blush-rose face elo- 
quent and conscious — Lady Jane, with Maurice and Laura, 
came through the archway; and the mother felt like a coast- 
guardsman who has stumbled on a group of smugglers. 


CHAPTEE XVII. 

AS THE DAY WORE OH. 

Happy are those in whose mind are no cross-ways nor 
double-acting hinges. Wretched as that poor nameless 
Miserrimus are those who desire a certain good which would 
bring with it intolerable pain. Swung backward and for- 
ward between longing and abhorrence, they suffer one of 
the pains of hell; and none but those who have proved it 
know the stormy anguish of irreconcilable desires. 

At this moment Lady Jane was among those wretched 
ones. There was nothing she desired so ardently as rich 
marriages for her sons and daughters. A fresh influx of 
gold vvas of vital importance to the family flnances, dis- 
astrously honeycombed with debts as they were. And this 
influx was all the more necessary as they had sunk a small 
fortune in tr3dng for lead on Brent Eell, which they had not 
yet found in sufficient quantity to pay the head engineer's 
wages. But they were always going to find it — always on 
the point of realizing their dreams; and, on the strength 
of that realization, they had gone into those building ex- 
penses, already assuming formidable dimensions, as a 
checkmate to Paston^s magnificence. To be sure, the con- 


MILLIOKAIEE MISER. 


149 


dition of things troubled Lady Jane and her husband only 
at intervals — when they allowed themselves to doubt the 
ultimate success of their lead mine. This was not often, 
being of the class to whom wishes are facts; and as the 
creditors were considerate, not to say obsequious, and were 
satisfied with little sops on account, the wheel spun round 
with a merry hum and the wool was still forthcoming. For 
all that, things were undeniably shaky, and Lady Jane knew 
what she chose to forget. 

Now here sitting fair in the sunshine was Yetta Carew; 
on one side, the solution of all her difiiculties; on the other, 
an indignity impossible to endure. If Maurice should 
many her, the Pactolus which had run dry would be once 
more at spate; and the Clintons would be again, as for so 
many generations now, among the highest of the county. 
But how could she wish it? "Yetta, the daughter of Paston' 
— the granddaughter of the Creature — how could she. Lady 
Jane, whose blood was of the purest azure, suffer such an 
alliance, though Pactolus at flood would be the result? If 
Paston would but die, then the thing might be within meas- 
urable distance. But while he was alive, and that smart of 
Mock-Beggar still stung — no! it was impossible! 

Personally the girl was well enough. As the mother of 
those four imperfect sketches of the Graces, Lady Jane 
could go no further than this. And she had to acknowl- 
edge this with a heart-ache as well as a grudge. As a fort- 
une, Y^'etta would be supreme; but her origin? even her 
own birth? her mother? Who knew anything about her 
mother? Whether she were a Hindoo or an Englishwom- 
an, a heathen or a Christian, Paston ^s wife or his Creature 
— no one here in Beaton Brows knew more than by what 
means he had shaken the pagoda-tree, or the pattern of the 
rake by which he had scooped up the fallen fruit. In all 
2)robability she was a native and a creature. Family cir- 
cumstances have a trick of repeating themselves; and it 
was more than likely that Paston had repeated his father ^s 
shameful story, and had taken for the mother of his child 
a low-caste impropriety, whose union with her master the 
Church had not blessed nor the law recognized. Yes, that 
was more than likely. In which case Y’etta was even more 
base-born than her father. 

Be that so or no, what right had Lanfrey, the younger 
son, whose fortunes did not count, to devote himself to this 


150 


PASTO^r CAREW, 


iinconsecrated heiress, with Ethel to give him sisterly and 
imprudent countenance? Lady Jane went up to the three 
— she, the coast-guard suddenly fallen on a smugglers^ cave, 
and they, the deluded delinquents putting a good face on a 
bad job. They dutifully rose at her approach — her own 
children for respect, and Yetta for the imitation of good 
example. 

“ How can you be so imprudent, Ethel ?’^ said my lady, 
testily. “ How often must I tell you that nothing is more 
dangerous than sitting like this in the sun? What do you 
expect will become of your complexion if you expose your- 
self in this manner? Lanfrey, how can you take so little 
care of your sister? I shall not trust her to you again if 
you prove yourself so unworthy of my confidence. 

To Y^etta she said nothing — her complexion being her 
own affair, not a Clinton appanage. She merely swept her 
with her eyes, as if these had been a double-bladed scythe 
and the tall girl a thistle to be mown down. 

‘‘ I did not feel it too hot,^^ said Ethel, whom her moth- 
er's harshness always painfully oppressed. 

“ Nor 1 /’ said Yetta, as a soft kind of buttress. 

Lady Jane put up her glasses. “ You are accustomed 
to the sun. English people are not,^'’ she said, coldly. 

Y'etta felt that she was sailing over torpedoes. She did 
not see them — could not trace their exact lines, therefore 
could not avoid them — but she. knew they were there. 

“ Not much,^^ she answered, vaguely. Not more than 
any one else. 

‘‘ Surely you are an Indian! You were born in India, 
were you not?"’"’ asked Lady Jane, in the same hard, cold, 
uncomfortable way. 

“ Y"es, I was born there, but I left when I was eight 
years old,^^ replied Yetta, always vague and unconscious of 
.the reason why. 

‘ ‘ Still it is your native country, and has accustomed you 
to the sun — made you an exotic,^ ^ said Maurice, supporting 
his mother. 

‘‘And your mother was an Indian, said Lady Jane, 
drawing her bow at a venture. 

“ She was in India when my father married, but she was 
English, said Yetta, still not understanding, but more and 
more alive to the fact of danger. 


MILLIOl^AIKE AND MISER. 15'1 

I thought she had been a nautch-girl ora Begum, or 
something like that,'^ returned Lady Jane. 

Yetta first stared hard, as if a little dazed for a moment; 
then her face and neck flushed a deeper crimson than even 
on that day when she had floated into the still waters of 
Heron's Pool and found Lanfrey and Ethel on the bank. 

Did you think me a half-caste, Lady Jane?" she asked, 
hotly indignant. “ Did you think that my sweet mother 
could have been a black woman, and I with this hair? You 
know very little of India, if you imagine my father would 
have married a native, or that I am the daughter of one. 
Another time, take pains to inform yourself before you in- 
sult the memory of one who never injured you!" 

. She turned away in a tumult of passion that was verily a 
new sensation to her. She, generally so tranquil, and with 
whom the stream of life ran so gently, to be now caught iii 
this whirlpool of indignation — she, who thought so tenderly 
for others and cared for their remotest sensibilities, to have 
flung a reproach, a sarcasm into the face of Lady Jane 
Clinton, the social Queen of Beaton Brows, and in the 
presence of her children, among whom she counted her own 
especial friends — what sooty demon from the depths of 
Tophet had possessed her! — what venomous tarantula had 
stung her! 

Her heart was fluttering Like a frightened bird; her 
cheeks were burning; her lips were set and squared; her 
soft eyes were bright and dark with her unwonted anger. 
She had raised herself to her full height, and lifted her 
head high on the slender neck which was usually a little 
bent,.like a flower-stalk when the flower is heavy; her whole 
body was quivering, strung, and tense; and in defense of 
the mother she had never known, she felt as if she could 
have defied a dozen such as Lady Jane, even if her lance 
had grazed the face of Ethel and pierced the hand of Lan- 
frey. 

“ Do not let yourself be so disturbed. Miss Oarew," said 
Lanfrey, striding up to her, and before the whole world 
offering himself as her friend against his mother's enmity. 
“We, who have never been in India, do not think with 
such horror of these mixed marriages as you do who have 
been in the country. To us they are like any other. I am 
sure my mother did not mean to hurt you, and is sorry that 


"152 


PASTON CAREW, 


she has done so/^ he continued^ looking back to Lady Jane, 
as if asking her to apologize. 

‘‘ It was an insult/^ said Yetta, in a clear, resonant 
voice. “ And it was intended as an insult. 

“ Leave the mother to settle her own alfairs, Lanfrey/^ 
said Maurice, savagely, in an undertone to his brother. 
To his mother he said, also in an undertone: Mother, 
you have gone too far. You do not want to burn your 
boats behind you; and that nautch-girl was a blunder.'’^ 

“ Why this extraordinary outburst. Miss Carew?^^ asked 
Lady Jane, with well-acted surprise. What offended you, 
pray? Are not Indian women as good as any one else? 
They are God^s children like ourselves,^ ^ she continued, 
with a beautiful outflow of democratic Christianity that 
would have done credit to St. Francis Xavier. ‘ ‘ Why 
should you be vexed ? Do you think yourself so very far 
above all the rest of the world?’’’ 

‘‘ And do you think it a compliment to be asked if my 
mother was a nautch-girl and a native?” asked Yetta, still _ 
hot and proud. 

“ I am sorry if I offended you, and I am glad your moth- 
er was not a Begum,” said Lady Jane, coldly, making the 
most of an apology it was in her nature to make. “ Though 
you would not have been different from what you are if 
she had been,” she added, ambiguously. 

Yetta bent her head in a stately kind of way; then 
turned to join Mrs. Ellacombe, when she should have 
found her. Lanfrey was going with her. His mother 
called him. 

‘‘ Lanfrey, I will not have you make a fool of yourself 
by pinning yourself to that girl’s skirts in this ridiculous 
way,” she said, in a harsh whisper. ‘‘ Stay here with me, 
and give me your arm. Ethel, keep with your sisters. 
You are not to be trusted out of my sight, tiresome child 
that you are! Maurice, go and get that insolent young 
woman into a good humor again. I am glad her mother 
was not a Begum, though I dare say she was, after all. 
That fair hair is no proof; and there is something very odd 
about her eyes. They are far too dark for her complexion, 
and I am sure show black blood. But go, Maurice, I do 
not want to offend her, though she is such an insolent 
spitfire. ” 

By which it was evident that those double-acting hinges 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


153 


were actively at work, and that my lady^s mind, usually 
so clear and trenchant as to the course to pursue, now 
wavered like a door blown to and fro by the wind — in spite 
of the French proverb, neither open nor shut. 

Lanfrey ground his teeth and mentally cursed his fate. 
He could not refuse to give his mother his arm, and he 
could not fly at his brother^’s throat, nor even insist that 
he should not go after Miss Carew. She was not his prop- 
erty to take or deny; and he was obliged, as we all are, to 
subdue the impulse of the natural man in favor of the 
artificial restraints of the gentleman; while Maurice, 
flushed and as uncertain of his real wishes as his mother, 
dashed after Yetta, and got up to her just as she vanished 
through the archway. 

^ My mother is sorry she vexed you; and I am sorry 
too,'’^ he said, as he came up to her. 

He was not soriy. On the contrary, her passion, gentle 
as it had been in the roll-call of passions, had touched a 
kindred chord in his own nature; and he admired her for 
her outbreak more than he had even for her sweetness. 

‘‘ Do not talk of it,^^ said Yetta, proudly. When 
things are done with, they are done with. 

“ I see you do not forgive easily,^^ he said, with a light 
laugh, wanting to goad her into a new fury — wanting to 
see the fire blaze out again. 

Is keeping silence a sign of resen tment?^^ she an- 
swered, scornfully. 

‘‘In that voice — that manner — ^yes,^^ he said, with the 
same light laugh. “You have not forgiven my mother, 
and you are cherishing resentment. See what a good inter- 
preter I am.^ ’ 

Yetta stopped dead, and faced her tormentor. 

“ Please be quiet or leave me. Captain Clinton, she 
said angrily. If you insist on talking of disagreeable 
things, I will not answer you. It is intolerable ! I will not 
endure it! You are simply trying to annoy me; and if you 
insist, I shall appeal to some other gentleman for protec- 
tion.^^ 

“Do you mean war. Miss Carew?” said Maurice, the 
flush fading away into the pallor of concentrated anger. 
“ I advise you to think twice before you make me your 
enemy, or enter into the lists against my family. 

“ If your friendship is to be secured only by submitting 


154 


PASTOK CAREW, 


to your insults, T would rather have your enmity/^ retorted 
Yetta; and before Maurice could answer, they were run 
into by Fitz-George Standish on the lookout for his young 
saint, whose somewhat unsaintly excitement he had not 
seen and would scarce have credited. 

“ This is of good augury, said Fitz-George, taking off 
his cap and sweeping it to his knees in his exaggerated 
way. I was just looking for you. Miss Carew. 

“ And I am looking for Mrs. Ellacombe. Where is she? 
Do you know, Mr. Standish? Will you take me to her?^^ 
said Yetta, all in a breath. 

“ Let me take you,^’’ said Maurice, his face as white as 
the wild white roses Yetta held in her hand, and his eyes 
as dark and glowing as burning coals. 

“ No,^^ said Yetta, as proudly as before; ‘‘ I will go with 
Mr. Standish."^ 

The young Guardsman drew himself up m the manner 
of a military man struck on the shoulder and made to 
remember his drill; Fitz-George writhed epileptically, long- 
ing to kneel at the fair girFs feet and kiss the hem of her 
garments. 

“ Thank you! oh, thank you. Miss OarewF^ he said, 
wdth painful gratitude — convulsive effusion; while Maurice 
turned sharply away and joined the Shillibeers, as if in the 
gayest humor possible, to poor Amy’s radiant and decep- 
tive happiness — so proud that she was held more attractive 
than the beautiful Miss Carew. 

Then said Mr. Standish, anxious to improve the time 
and profit by the occasion : ‘ ‘ Permit me to be your cice- 
rone here. Miss Carew. I want to be your guide. I saw 
you carried ofi by those who understand these sacred ruins 
as little as they understand the subtle mysteries of primitive 
Christianity. I w^as mortified, but I was helpless. My 
duties as host called me elsewhere. Now I hope I may 
indemnify myself for my past pain.” 

“ Mr. Clinton and his sister seemed to know all about 
these ruins,” said Yetta, with some haste. 

“ As to the names of the courts and walls, perhaps — as 
to the hidden meaning, nothing!” was the answer. 

“ The hidden meaning!” repeated Yetta. 

In her voice was a great deal of surprise and something 
that was rather keener than surprise. 

‘‘ Did they tell you all this?’’ said Fitz-George, plung- 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


155 


ing into a long harangue on the beauty, the sacredness, the 
spiritual splendor of monastic life and mediaeval times gen- 
erally — a harangue pronounced in his monotonous voice, 
with as many obsolete words as his vocabulary furnished, 
as much posturizing as he could force his limbs to adopt, 
and as large a cargo of aesthetic affectation as he could sail 
with, anyhow. He perorated and never ended; and Yetta 
began to think she had fallen into the hands of the Wan- 
dering Jew, doomed to speak rather than to travel, when 
Octavia Gaysworthy dashed across the scene, and, to Fitz- 
Oeorge^s infinite disgust, fastened on Yetta like an octopus 
darting on its prey. And where Octavia Gaysworthy ap- 
peared, romance was put to flight. 

With her matter-of-fact vulgarity she broke in on their 
hosFs harangue at one of its most high-flown points and 
tossed up his finest phrases like so many egg-shell cups and 
saucers. 

“ What rubbish she said, her nose in the air. “ Have 
you ever been to Italy, Mr. Standish? You would see there 
what your horrid old dirty monks are like, and be thank- 
ful that we had done with them ! Dirty, lazy old creatures, 
who wear woolen things till they actually drop* off. in rags, 
and who never wash more than their hands and faces, and 
not them too often! And this is the kind of thing you 
want to see brought back liereT^ 

“ The baleful modern spirit has fouled the old-time 
beauty, said Fitz-George. “ Wherever it has lighted it 
has left its mark and stained that which was as pure as the 
morning dew with the color of its own mud — London mud ! 
Modern monasticism in Italy is not what monasticism was 
centuries agone in this fair England of ours."’’’ 

‘‘ What rubbishr^’ again said Octavia. ‘‘ As if it was 
not always the same — only more so! Why, it never changes. 
The Church of Eome boasts that it is always the same. 
And what can the modern spirit, as you call it, do to a set 
of people who never go out, and don’t read newspapers, 
and are so ignorant they thought the Prince of Wales was 
Henry the Eighth? They live just as they did in the time 
of the apostles — ^not a bit different. ” 

‘‘ Pardon me. Miss Gaysworthy, there were no monastic 
orders in the time of the apostles,” said Fitz-George, dis- 
dainfully. 

“ But I have seen pictures of them!” cried Octavia. 


156 


PASTON CAKEW, 


‘‘ There is a picture in Florence — a funny little thing all 
in Compartments, as it were; and there were saints and 
monks and angels and things all mixed up together. 

‘ ‘ Why seek to deny the hohness of our Ancient Mother 
and the bountiful outpour of her grace asked Fitz- 
George, reproachfully. 

‘‘ Oh, bother!"^ said Octavia. “ Do you want to persuade 
our darling here to be a nun.^^^ laughing shrilly. You 
would make a duck of a nun, you dear, in 3^our white coif 
and wipple, or whatever it is called, she added to Yetta. 

But it would be a burning shame to shut you up and 
never let you see your friends. It is only a nun to whom a 
gardener is a man, some one says. Fancy you, after all 
your triumphs in the world, reduced to make eyes at a gar- 
dener!'’^ 

Ridicule is no argument. Miss Gaysworthy,^^ said Fitz- 
George, irritably. “ Miss Oarew will not, I am sure, allow 
herself to be warped from righteousness by the raillery of 
Miss Gaysworthy. 

“ Nor made into a dear darling duck of a nun by the 
eloquence of Mr. Fitz-George Standish, Miss Gaysworthy^s 
friend, wa’s Octa vial’s pert rejoinder. 

“Mr. Standish might do worse than that,^^ said Elsie 
Arrol, dryly. 

She had the trick of stealing upon her Petrarca unawares, 
when he thought he had safely landed her for a short 
breathing-space. And since the arrival of Yetta Carew, 
she had stolen upon him rather more often than before. 

Losing her usual serenity for the second time within 
this half-hour, Yetta said, impatiently: “ Oh, please leave 
me alone! I can not bear to be made the subject of dis- 
cussion!’^ 

Verily, Yetta Carew, our gentle, courteous damsel, was 
showing new lights and fresh facets to-day; and without 
doubt the mosaic had got wrongly placed and the kaleido- 
scope inharmoniously shaken ! 

A fresh combination was made by the dinner, which once 
more gathered all the party into one body. Yetta was sit- 
ting under the shade of a beech-tree with Mrs. Ellacombe, 
when Lanfrey came out of space and settled himself close 
to them, devoting himself exclusively to them. Lady Jane, 
quite at the other end, could neither reform nor decompose 
existing arrangements; and though her ‘‘^breast was strait- 


MILLIONAIEE AOT MISEK. 


157 


enecl/-’and she was worried and annoyed all round, she had 
to make the best of things as they were, and to conceal the 
displeasure on which she could not act. Had it been Mau- 
rice who was sitting by Miss Oarew, she would have seen 
therein the hand of Providence, and would have reasoned 
herself into the frame of mind which ascribes to piety the 
satisfaction due to. gratified desire. But there was no 
heavenly leading for Lanfrey. The estate would be none 
the better for the younger son^s good fortune, if the elder 
had to go to the wall. 

Meanwhile things went on in their course. The clatter 
of plates and knives, the clinking of glasses, the popping 
of champagne corks and soda-water bottles, the light laugh- 
ter^of the young, and the quieter tones of the old, made up 
the well kuown picnic music. And as Beaton Brows was 
not afflicted with the modern malady we call adjectively 
Uase, it was not ashamed to enjoy itself, and no one lifted 
up his eyebrows in disdain nor shrugged his shoulders in 
derision. 

When the last glass of wine had been drunk — and most 
had fallen to Maurice Clinton ^s share — the last strawberry 
eaten, and the last ‘‘ No more, thank you,^^ said, then 
again began those groupings and pairings which stirred the 
imagination of Pitz-George Standish, and gave occasion of 
heart-burning or rejoicing to the young. Lady Jane again 
called olf Lanfrey; herded Ethel among her sisters; told 
Maurice to accompany Miss Carew — “ I would not need to 
be told if — he said, leaving the rest of the sentence im- 
spoken. And his mother who heard him did not press him. 

And when she had arranged all to her own satisfaction, 
she proposed to the rector and Mrs. Harcourt to make that 
little round which girdled a natural cave in the rock, known 
as the HermiPs Cell. It was the walk always taken at the 
end of a picnic dinner in Ferndale woods. 

But it was Ichabod ! in good truth to Yetta when Mau- 
rice, caressing his mustache as his manner was, looking' 
at her with eyes that both shamed and angered her, came 
upon her like a leopard, and she had to endure him with a 
patience that was as much courage as patience. Had she 
been left alone with Mrs. Ellacombe — lispingly satirized in 
unintelligible Latin by Mr. Harcourt, or mildly prodded at 
by his otherwise-minded wife — she would not have bewailed 


158 


PASTON^ CAREW, 


herself. But the presence of this man, of all in Beaton 
Brows the most antipathetic to her, was hard to bear. 

He, on his side, like his mother, was stirred by many 
conflicting feelings. He admired the girBs beauty witli- 
that fierceness which is but the other side of hate; he was 
madly jealous of his brother, whom yet he condemned for 
his disloyalty to the Clinton flag; he loathed Paston as if he 
had been some humanized reptile — but he wanted his money, 
tainted as it might be. For herself as she was, he would 
have made Yetta his lover; for her dowy, he would have 
given her his name; but for her origin and parentage he 
held her not fit to be his mother^s maid. The result of all 
this seething tumult and contradiction was a mixture of in- 
solence and gallantry which offended Yetta more and more, 
and stirred Mrs. Ellacombe^s indignation no less than her 
own. She did what she could, however, to shield her 
charge; but as manner is a thing too subtle to be fought 
with, being of the nature of an atmosphere, a mist, an 
echo, she could not do very much; and Yetta had to defend 
herself as she best might. 

In this walk, which was also round the Hermit ^s Cell, 
they came to a path too narrrow to allow of three abreast, 
where they had to walk in Indian-file. Yetta was in front, 
Mrs. Ellacombe between her and Maurice — intentionally 
keeping back, so as to give the girl a free space undisturbed 
by her tormentor. Thus she was some distance ahead, 
when suddenly a turn in the road brought in view Lady 
Jane and the Harcourts. They had gone the other way 
round. Not looking where she went. Lady Jane struck 
her foot against a jutting root, and would have fallen had 
not Yetta sprung forward and caught her just in time. She 
also caught her own arm in a broken branch, or thorny 
bramble, which ripped open her sleeve and tore the tender 
flesh beneath from the elbow to the wrist. 

Thank you,^^ said Lady Jane, tartly. I could have 
-recovered myself. 

She would have preferred to fall rather than to be helped 
by Paston Carew^s daughter, feeling that Yetta had done 
her the greatest injury in being of service to her. Does 
not every willful enemy feel that? 

‘^Are you hurt, mother? asked Maurice, anxiously. 
He and Mrs. Ellacombe had come up by now, and, with 


MILLIOKAIRE AND MISER. 159 

the Harcourts, ftiade a fussy little group, all anxious about 
their sovereign lady. 

His mother was the only living thing Maurice really 
loved, save his dog. 

‘"No; it is nothing — nothing at all! Miss Carew need 
not have given herself the trouble to catch me — making 
such a fuss!^^ said my lady, her snappish petulance with- 
out a rag to hide it. 

‘‘I was afraid you would fall and hurt yourself,^ ^ said 
Yetta. 

‘‘ I am not a helpless old woman. I can surely recover 
myself from a stumble!^’ said Lady Jane, in the same irri- 
table and irritated manner. 

The scratched arm began to smart, and the oozing blood 
dyed the torn sleeve with a broad red line. 

“ Look at that!^^ continued Lady Jane, in an aggrieved 
voice, as if she had been scolding one of her own girls. 

‘ ‘ Look at the mess you have made of yourself — all for noth- 
ing! Tearing your gown and scratching your arm in that 
preposterous way! It is quite indelicate !^^ 

“ It is not much,'’"’ said Yetta, proudly, dabbing her arm 
with her handkerchief. 

^‘Are you hurt, dear? Let me bind it f or you, said 
Mrs. Ellacombe, with mother-like tenderness. 

“ It is only a scratch — it is nothing, said Yetta, steadily. 

But the smart was tingling, in spite of her brave words, 
and her heart was throbbing with both shame and anger. 
Nevertheless she carried her head high and kept her eyes 
dry. 

“Plucky as well as beautiful and unforgiving,^-’ said 
Maurice, in a low voice. 

He longed to kiss her arm — there where it was bleeding. 
An insane desire took hold of him to feel her blood on his 
lips. He could scarce restrain it. The wild beast that 
was in him almost overpowered the man; and had he been 
alone with the girl he would have taken that cruel kiss by 
brute force, and he would have tasted her blood with the 
sweetness of her flesh. His eyes terrified Yetta as if he had 
been indeed the panther, the tiger, to which his fierce de- 
sire assimilated him; and she shrunk back from him in ab- 
solute physical terror. But he, indifferent to her repulsion, 
took her arm in his hands, and by sheer force bound it up 
with his own handkerchief. She struggled to get free, but 


160 PASTOI^r OAEEW, 

could not; and he would not 3deld her to Mrs. Ellacombe^ 
who insisted in vain. AVith a false laugh and a feverish 
kind of gayety he preferred himself as the surgeon, he said 
— he knew all about it, and Mrs. Ellacombe did not; and 
he would do it best. 

And, as Lady Jane said, harshly: “ Do not be so silly. 
Miss Carew. Keep quiet and let my son bind ujd your arm, 
if he wishes to do so. Do not make yourself ridiculous for 
the second time,^-’ Yetta yielded to her fate. 

But the instant' Maurice had finished, she turned to Mrs. 
Ellacombe and said: Will you unloose this, dear! It 
hurts me, and I do not want it — which completed the 
tale of her sins for the day. 

‘‘ If that girl w'ere my daughter — muttered Lady Jane, 
ominously, between her teeth, as she turned away with her 
companions, her son following her, humming an air from 
^^Aida.^^ 

“ My dear, said Mrs. Ellacombe, ‘‘ you were scarcely 
civil to Captain Clinton. 

Oh, Mrs. Ellacombe, keep him. away from me!^’’ cried 
Yetta, trembling with vague fear. detest him! and I 

am afraid of him! Do not let him come near me again! 
Do not — do not !^^ 

On which, as a furiher re-enforcement of her words, she 
burst into tears, and cried like a school-girl. 

The glory of the day had gone now for Yetta, and she 
felt that she should be glad when it was over. Her father 
was right: she must not become intimate with these people 
— these Clintons. Even Mr. Lanfrey was a Clinton. Good 
and charming as he was — delightful as it was to hear him 
talk — still he was a Clinton, the brother of Maurice, and 
the son of Lady Jane. Ko; she would stop where she was, 
and she would not go again to Heron^s Pool. There was 
something — she did not understand what — between them- 
selves and the Clintons; and she must respect her father^s 
hints and obey them more closely than she had done. 

The girPs pride upheld her in this girlish resolution and 
self-sacrifice, and Lanfrey pleaded for another afternoon in 
the woods in vain. He was very insistent, and very wretched 
to be denied; but he had to submit; and when the Ella- 
combe pony-carriage drove away, it left nothing but a bro- 
ken little golden chain of sweet memories and vague glory, 
with not a serviceable link for the future. Thus the day, 


/ 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


161 


which had begun so brightly, ended in clouds and gloom. 
It had taken away something that the former time had 
given. Yet it had left something as well; and Lanfrey 
would not have been a man had he not felt the spur of op- 
position and the stimulation given by obstacles. 

As they were driving home through the park, sitting 
under the tree at some distance from the road they saw 
Jim Sherwood. The old man^s head had sunk forward on 
his breast; one arm was flung across his knees, the other 
hung down by his side — the hand holding an open letter. 
The westering sun touched his whitened hair to shining 
silver, and brightened the brown tones of his gamekeeper^s 
dress into a kind of golden bronze. He might have been 
a statue, or a dead man, sitting there so motionless and ap- 
parently so lifeless. But had they gone near to him, they 
w^ould have seen this broad chest heave, and would have 
heard how his labored breath came thick and hard, as his 
mmd repeated again and again the one same thought — “ I 
knew that she was alive, and would one day come to me.^^ 

Patty Oarew, the former Creature, now the pauper widow 
of the brisk French teacher of languages — Yetta^’s grand- 
mother — writing to Jim Sherwood, the Clinton gamekeep- 
er, as an equal, regretting past disdain. \Yhat had a Son 
»of the House to do in such an ill-found galley? 


CHAPTER XVHI. 

IN DIFFICULTIES. 

French Clinton was walking to and fro on the terrace 
before the house. From his place he could see the whole 
extent of the park and country beyond, and rejoiced in the 
beauty of this grand domain — liis own, and one day to be 
his son^s. He had never been so sensible of its beauty as 
on this glorious summer^s evening. It seemed to have taken 
on itself new charm — added splendor — increased^ considera- 
tion — but also to carry with it more pain than joy, and as 
much anguish as pride. The terrace dominated the whole 
landscape, and commanded all the roads and approaches; 
which was why he was walking there in that restless wild- 
beast kind of way, watching for the return of his family 
from Ferndale, and feeling as if the long hours would never 
end. 


Easton cakew. 


165 

How silent it all was! The workmen had packed up 
their tools and gone home to their wives and families; the 
gardeners too were off duty; no one was about to distract 
his thoughts and divert his attention ; and the Valley through 
which his soul was passing was emphatically that of the 
Shadow. 

Presently there came into sight the carriage in which 
were Lady Jane and her daughters, with the buggy follow- 
ing at a smart trot far in the rear. The brothers were sit- 
ting as silent as stone. Man-like, they did not care to feign 
a cordiality they did not feel; being gentleman, they could 
not quarrel like coster-mongers. Lady Jane, on the con- 
trary, woman-like, did not trouble herself with too much 
reserve. She was snappish to her daughters, all of whom 
she scolded impartially; and her daughters were either 
crushed into silence like Ethel, or goaded into pert retort, 
like Laura. Sophia, who, because she was the biggest, al- 
ways had the place of honor by her mother’s side when they 
went four, as now, snubbed her mother by talking with ir- 
ritating tranquillity as if nothing were amiss, with Rose, 
sitting opposite; but she was inwardly as uncomfortable as 
the rest, and vdshed the drive were over, as they all did. 

Thus the day which had begun so brightly had ended like 
that eternal rocket; and the burned stick rapped more 
pates than one. Yetta had parted from Lanfrey in cold- 
ness and withdrawal — from Maurice in unconcealed hostil- 
ity — from Ethel with the regret of an enforced but deplored 
severance. Fitz-George Standish had felt the galling of 
his chain and bullet almost intolerable; and Elsie Arrol 
had the feeling of one who has dragged after him a reluc- 
tant creature whose only desire has been to escape. 

French, however, had cares of a graver kind than these. 
His hands behind his back; his soft felt hat drawn low on 
his brow; a look of hopeless dismay on his face; and inter- 
mittent volleys of explosives falling like red-hot shot from 
his crisped lips — he awaited the return of his family for the 
breaking of his vial and the benefit of his wife’s advice. 
For Lady Jane had touched that summit of supremacy so 
much desired by certain wives— her husband had lost the 
wish for as well as the power of independent action; and 
the pressure of her own strong will had paralyzed his. 

' Things had gone wrong to-day. He had had a long dis- 
cussion with his contractor, who had demanded certain pay- 


16 S 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 

merits which the Clinton current finances were utterly una- 
ble to meet. And he had had bad news of the lead mine. 

Unlike Paston, who had made his contractor write down 
the cost of every detail before he would agree to it—and 
who had therefore been able to check the accounts before 
the work was put in hand — French had been content with 
the loosest possible estimate, which he continually allowed 
to be overrun by extras more than doubling the original 
amount. Moreover, he had no intention of paying en 
route. The contractor was his courier who had to provide 
for the day’s disbursements. At the end he would be re- 
funded; but not before the end. To have done like Paston 
— paid ready money and pared off a fat percentage for cash 
down — would have been as far from his way of doing busi- 
ness as from his power. Hence, where the millionaire had 
saved at all four corners, the pinched and crippled county 
gentleman had squandered. And now when he had come 
to the first hitch, and the contractor had informed him that 
the work could not go on without a little golden oil to ease 
the machinery, he stood in that state of moral terror which 
overtakes the man who can not accomplish the thing al- 
ready began — that thing in which his personal pride and 
social consideration are bound up. 

‘‘ Jane, come here, I want to speak to you,” he said, 
when the carriage drew up under the scaffolding, and his 
family unpacked themselves from the rather tight fit — 
roomy as the old-fashioned family coach was. 

What is it, French?” asked his wife. 

She had graduated too long in the school of managing 
wives not to be able to read her husband’s face. 

“ The water has got into the Brent Fell mine, and Sam- 
son wants money,” said French, tersely. Samson was the 
engineer. “ So does Mason here, and I’ll be shot if I have 
any to give him. All I have must go to the mine. ” 

“ How much does Mason want?” asked Lady Jane. 

French named the sum. For a crippled county gentle- 
man, straining his last resources to feed an unprofitable 
mine, it was formidable. 

“ You see, I did not intend to pay till it was all done 
and the mine had begun to be profitable,” he said, exiJain- 
ing what Lady Jane knew as well as he. 

“ Then I should not,” she returned. 

He threatens to stop— says, indeed, he can not go on 


164 


PASTOl?' CAREW, 


— spoke 10 me without bluster or insolence — instead of that 
he was deferential apologetic, and actually had tears in his 
eyes/^ said French, in his turn apologetic to his wife in that 
he had not her crisp decision and clear determination. ‘‘I 
shall have to find the money somewhere, J ane. The ques- 
tion is — where? It is of no use to abuse the poor fellow, 
he continued, hastily, as Lady Jane let fall her round shot. 

Wretch “ I suppose he can coin money no more than 
we. These cursed times pinch every one alike. 

‘‘You must raise the rents. Some of the farms are let 
ridiculously low,-’-’ said Lady Jane. 

He gave a short laugh. 

“ Heally women have but poor heads for business-— even 
the best of them!^^ he said, irritably. “ When the land is 
depreciated in value as it is, and farms are falling on to my 
hands every day in the week, how can I raise the rents? 
Your advice is generally better than this, Jane. This is 
like a child’s talk!” 

“ Then you must borrow from the bank,” she said, not 
noticing his crossness. Having power, she could afford to 
do without form. 

“I question if the bank has any to lend,” was his 
gloomy reply. “ I suspect Arrol is shaky for his own part. 
He has been bolstering up those rotten iron- works too long. 
I told him he would burn his fingers, but he did not heed 
me; and now I fancy he has burned them pretty smartly.” 

“ Then you must cut down the wood, French,” said my 
lady, as the last resource. 

She did not say “ we.” It was more deferential to isolate 
her husband, as the sole master, and put herself in the 
background. She strengthened her power immensely by 
these frequent feints at abdication. 

“ We have cut down too much already,” said French. 
“ My father swept away every stick he could when Bonny 
Bell lost the Oaks. I question if I should be allowed to cart 
off so much as a hundred pounds’ worth. And I w^ant 
thousands! There is Maurice to think of; and things won’t 
be too bright for him when he comes into possession. I 
am sorry now I have undertaken this building. And yet 
the place wanted it.” 

“ Of course it did,” said Lady Jane. “ It was disgrace- 
ful as it was. We could not have gone on with things in 
such a state,” 


MILLION-AIRE AKD MISEE. 


165 


‘ ‘ The dance is all very well, but who the deuce is to pay 
the piper?’-’ said French, going back to the central point. 

Lady Jane looked out on the noble view before them as 
fondly, as regretfully, as her liusband had looked on it an 
hour ago. It was a hard alternative, but there seemed to 
be nothing else left. If the rents could not be raised, nor 
the bank tapped, nor the wood cut, what could be done but 
break the entail, and sell part to redeem the remainder? 

Sell Euddy Brow,” she said. That would bring in 
a fortune; and Maurice must consent. 

“Mortgaged up to the hilt,” said French. “To sell 
would be to be out of pocket. There is no light to be got 
there, Jane.” 

They were both silent, still looking out on this noble 
prospect, which belonged to them now — but for how long 
would it continue to be theirs at the rate at which things 
were going? 

Then there flashed across Lady Jane’s mind the image of 
that fair girl whom she had willfully affronted, sitting in 
the sunshine, pure and calm as some sweet saint of old. 
Here was the light her husband needed — here the solution 
of all her difficulties! Swift as that sudden change of 
thought men call conversion, her rancor fell from her as a 
worn-out rag — her proud contempt for the creature faded 
into the dim shadow of the past, condoned because past — 
her keen abhorrence of Paston was merged in the passionate 
desire for his gold, born of the day’s sharp need. She saw 
only the advantages and none of the drawbacks. Her de- 
sire ceased to swing to and fro like a door blown about by 
the wind. She set it finally open, and let the full force of 
her new idea sweep through. 

Yetta Oarew, as the wife of Maurice, was better than the 
mutilation of the estate. And she was the only alterna- 
tive. It must be marriage or sale — ^gold with some alloy, 
perhaps, but gold in plenty, and all things righted; or the 
lack of even silver, and the family brought down to noth- 
ing. Who would hesitate? Not she, Lady Jane; and if 
not she, then certainly not her husband. 

“ Then, French,” said Lady Jane, in her clear, sharp, 
trenchant way, “ we must make friends with the Carews, 
and Maurice must marry the girl.” 

Frencti turned round on the garden seat, set on the edge 
of the terrace, where they were sitting, and faced his wife 


166 


PASTON CAREW, 


with a look of sudden and irrepressible fear. He thought 
she had gone mad. A kind of superstitious dread, wortliy 
of Paston, swept over him, and he looked at her as if she 
had become changed from her true self — as if some malig- 
nant demon were speaking in her person. 

Make friends with the Carews, and my son marry his 
daughter he said, slowly. ‘‘Jane, are you mad? Ho! 
By heavens, rather than that, I would sell half the estate 
and sink to the level of Standish or Ellacombe! I would 
rather let the hall and live in the porter^s lodge than owe 
my standing and salvation to the bastard son of old Maurice 
— a man whose conduct toward myself too has been as in- 
sulung as his birth is a family disgrace. I have sworn 
never to admit him into my house; and I will keep my 
word/’ 

“ You forget your daughters and you forget me,^-’ said 
Lady Jane, who, now that she had launched .her mental 
skilf, determined to stick by it at all hazards. “ After all, 
French, there is more to be thought of than family pride or 
personal resentment. 

“ You may talk till doomsday, Jane, you will never turn 
me,’^ he answered. 

“ Perhaps not; but at least hear what I have to say,^’ 
she returned. “ You always are Just and reasonable, 
French. Be so now. Look here. It would be only com- 
mon Justice that this man — whose birth, poor wi*etch! has 
done our name so much harm — should redeem our money 
losses. And I say again — better than selling the land and 
sinking to the social level of Fitz-George Standish or Grant 
Ellacombe, would be a marriage with this girl, whose dowry 
would set all to rights. I like the idea no better than you 
do, French, but it would be the" best way out of the diffi- 
culty; and really, for herself, the girl is not so very objec- 
tionable after all. She is fairly well-mannered, and she is 
quite presentable in appearance; though I do not think her 
so supremely lovely a-s some make her out to be. We must 
do what we can, you see, not what we would. 

“ Hot that,^"* said French. “ The blood of the Clintons 
shall never be tainted with that of a country wenches bas- 
tard. I would die rather 1^^ 

“ Well, let us think it all over quietly,^"' said Lady Jane, 
showing the flag of truce. “ A thing like this is not to be 
done in a hurry. AVhatever is decided on, it must be with 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


167 


deliberation and after mature consideration. Let us put it 
away for to-night, and to-morrow we will talk it over with 
the boys. It touches them — certainly it touches Maurice 
as nearly as ourselves — and they have a right to put in their 
word. We will consult with them, French, and perhaps 
some of us will strike out a practical scheme. 

‘‘ I do not see how,^^ said French, with a sigh. ‘‘ Sam- 
son wants money, and must have it at once, else the mine 
must be abandoned and go to the devil; and Mason wants 
some on Saturday — this is Wednesday — else the building 
will be left and 1 shall be the laughing-stock of the county. 
Where is it all to come from? Unless from the skie^, I am 
sure I do not know. What a fool I was to believe in that 
scoundrel who ‘prospected^ Brent Fell! And I ought to 
have let the house alone; it was well enough as it was. 

“ No, it was not,^^ said Lady Jane, firmly. “ It was 
what you yourself said just now — a disgrace to us and the 
county.-’^ He had said nothing of the kmd; but he let it 
pass. “ If we have to be humbled in one way or another, we 
had better be humbled like Clintons, and not like beggars 

“ Your plan of touching up our torn places with Oarew 
bank-notes is not very like a Clinton, said French, dryly. 

And Lady Jane, like a wise woman as she was, gave no 
answer. 

But this talk averted the storm which else would have 
burst over^ Lanfrey; and she w^as glad that she had not, as 
Maurice had said, burned her boats behind her. If she could 
get French to consent, she would put it to Maurice to make 
Pas ton ^s daughter his wife. She would not think that 
Lanfrey was seriously struck with the girl. He had only 
taken up with her out of opposition, and because of his 
abominable democratic principles. He would never have 
been such a fool as to allow even the faintest spark of per- 
sonal feeling to exist. And if he had been this fool, this 
hasty, inconsiderate, reprehensible young Romeo, then must 
he forego his own private fancy — it could be no more in so 
short a time — for the good of the family and the redemption 
of the estate through Maurice. 

Of Maurice himself she had no fear. He would do what 
a Clinton should. And the girl herself was one whom a 
man might love without much trouble. Now that she had 
veered round to this view, and hid not only. accepted the 
possibility but had committed herself to the warm advocacy 


168 


PASTOK CAREW, 


of the alliance, she was not disposed to make difficulties 
anywhere: and Yetta^s passion had at least cleared up that 
point about her mother; and she had really been very good- 
natured in the wood. Maurice might do worse. Of course 
he might do better-^she would have thought that of any 
wife under a royal princess — but he might also do worse. 
Besides, one must not be too hard; it is not Christian-like. 
Without doubt the grandmother was an inherited blemish 
of a grave kind. But then a Clinton had been as much to 
blame as she; perhaps more so. She had been only a poor 
simple village girl who had been dazzled by the offer of such 
a man-^almost like a god to her — and had b§en seduced 
by the splendor of her shame. It was old Maurice who 
ought to have known better. He had been the true crimi- 
nal, and this poor young creature had been his victim. And 
it is so hard to break a connection of this kind when once 
formed, and with the boy to keep them together. And 
then this girl, this Yetta, had Clinton blood in her, if on 
the left hand and sadly mixed. But it was always some- 
thing to be — if only half a quarter — a Clinton 

So my lady reasoned in her rapid way, and boxed the 
compass all round; while her husband had not drawn off so 
much as a point from his course. 

By putting off all serious discussion on ways and means 
until to-morrow. Lady Jane managed to get hold of her 
elder son for a few moments alone. 

‘‘Maurice,'’^ she said, quickly, ‘‘we are in an awful 
mess. The mine is flooded, and Samson wants a large 
sum of money to go on with, else it will have to be aban- 
doned.' Mason has struck, and wants a dreadful sum on 
Saturday, else the work will be left. Your father fears 
the bank can not advance him any more. He owes it, as 
you know, some awful amount; and he has heard, on very 
good authority, a repoH of its own difficulties. No wood 
can be cut down — ^your grandfather, poor man, misman- 
aged everything so terribly — and, naturally, your father 
does not want to break up the estate and sell even a part. 
He wishes it to go to you, my dear, intact, and in good 
condition; besides, it is so heavily mortgaged it would not 
fetch much if sold. And thus it is an impasse out of which 
I see only one way. 

“ What is your way, mother?^'’ asked Maurice. 

“You must marry Yetta Carew.^^ 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


169 


CHAPTER XIX. 

IN FAMILY CONCLAVE. 

Set face to face with grave disaster, the Clintons had 
now to show of what intrinsic stuff they were made, and 
how far consistency of principle would hold out against the 
pressure of material things. Lady Jane had already yielded. 
The average woman does yield sooner to such a pressure 
than does the average man; and hut few keep their personal 
pride when the res mala meets them and the fear of im- 
pending ruin compasses them round about. A man knows 
that his honor makes part of his wealth. His pride is as 
much a material possession as is his money; and to lose this 
pride, that he may pay his debts or keep his estate, is to be 
as completely beggared as if made a bankrupt by the law, 
and his land taken from liim by the Encumbered Estates 
Commission. 

To a woman, accustomed to dependence and unable to 
fight, pride of that resolute masculinity is one of the rarest 
qualities, and indeed scarce ranks as a virtue. If by the 
sacrifice of the whole moral code at a blow she can secure 
the well-being of her own, the chances are she will pawn 
her soul and redeem the loved ones'’ fortunes with the pro- 
ceeds. More histories than that of Nadjezda tell us this. 
And all below this supreme self-sacrifice is a foregone con- 
clusion. 

Lady Jane had parted with her pride, as her contribution 
to the need of the moment. Her animosity against the 
Carews was like a thing of the remote past— mildewed, 
rusted, decayed, out of all likeness to its former self. She 
stood now as the ardent advocate of a marriage which', a 
short time ago, she would have considered the lowest de- 
gradation to which her husband'’s house could fall. But 
for the redemption of the estate even this muddy way be- 
came like a golden stair, and Fasten, once an outcast, might 
take his place with the best. 

French, on the contrary, had not given the suggestion a 
second thought. It was on a par in iniquity with the pro- 
posal to an old Israelite to bring offerings to Baal and bow 
down in the House of Rimmon — to a true believer to deny 


170 


PASTOK CAKEW, 


Allah and vilify his prophet. It was infamy; and he put 
it away from him, not so much because he felt it tor-be a 
temptation of Satan, as because it was dishonoring to his 
wife to remember it; and he wished to forget it for her 
sake. 

Maurice had thought of little else durmg the night. The 
girhs beauty burned in bis blood like fire; her birth stung 
his pride as a poisoned thorn rankling in the flesh. He 
knew that if compelled by the force of circumstances to 
marry her, he should love her for a month and despise her 
ever after. She would be always Patty Carew^’s grand- 
daughter to him; and his own honor, as Clinton of Clinton, 
would never wholly blot out her shame. He would hot 
even love the children she might give him, because of the 
base blood that would be mixed with his own., His eldest 
son would be a Carew as well as a Clinton; and Paston and 
his mother — the infamous creature of past history — would 
be ingrafted for all eternity on the family tree they had 
primarily dishonored. Yet the prize was tempting; for the 
peril in which the estate stood was both great and immi- 
nent. 

Lanfrey knew nothing of all this tumult of feeling — this 
presage of disaster. It would be time enough to take him 
into confldence to-morrow, thought his mother. He would 
have to be included in the family council that must be held, 
because of his position as the next heir, failing Maurice. 

‘‘ But he will be of no use when included,''^ said Lady 
Jane, disdainfully. “ Your dreamers and reformers never 
are! His panacea is sure to be some impossible act of 
sacrifice with a fine name, entailing on us all absolute de- 
struction. 

French did not speak. He thought Lady Jane’s own 
panacea slightly more impossible than any that Lanfrey 
could suggest — with the disadvantage of being immoral as 
well. And Lanfrey’s, if sure to be impracticable, would 
also be certainly heroic. 

The next day broke heavy, gloomy, oppressive. The sky 
was overcast with clouds, and the w’hole atmosphere was 
charged with electricity; whereby all nature was afllicted, 
and tempers suffered in unison with the Mother. The 
breakfast was like a feast of mutes — the silence broken only 
by the accidents of the meal, or, now a petulant remon- 
strance from one of the girls, and now a languid request, the 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


171 


one eloquent of quivering irritability, the other of deadened 
energies. Lady Jane did not eat; and when Ethel pressed 
her favorite roll and marmalade, she administered a rebuke 
for officiousness, which had the same effect on her eldest 
daughter as that on a snail when you touch its horns, or on 
' a sensitive plant when you bruise its leaves. French found 
fault with all before him, but, being a man, he eat as 
heartily as usual; and Maurrice backed his father in his 
strictures, and proposed discharging the cook before the day 
was two hours older. 

When it was all over, and the family began to disperse to 
their several employments, just as the young men were 
passing through the hall — Lanfrey to fish and Maurice to 
go to the stables — French called them both by name, bid- 
ding them come to his business-room, where he always went 
in the morning. 

‘‘ Boys,^^ he said, come here — Maurice and Lanfrey, 
both of you. Your mother and I have something to say to 
you. 

‘‘ To be slated, thought Lanfrey, in the current vernac- 
ular. 

But he had resolved on his line, and carried his head as 
high as if lie were innocent of all the misdeeds he knew 
could, and probably would, be proved against him. He 
would brave it out, whatever came, and stand by his ad- 
vocacy of peace with Paston and a more than honorable re- 
ception of Yetta. He felt, indeed, that to give up this last 
would be to give up part of his life — his new life and his 
brightest. 

Maurice, still uncertain of his action, and not clear as to 
the predominant wish, but in any case out of the range of 
the parental missiles, looked far less confident than his 
brother, who expected immediate condemnation. But such 
as they looked and felt, they passed through the fine old 
hall, adorned with stags^ heads, ancient family armor, glass 
cases of rare birds and big fish which had fallen to the gun 
and rod of sundry by-gone Clintons, as well as with huge 
bits of lead ore, sparkling quartz, and the like — on which 
French had founded his hopes of success when he sunk the 
mine on Brent Fell, and with it half his fortune — and so 
to the business-room, where the family council was to be 
held. 

Lady Jane was already there. 


17 ^ 


PASTON CAKEW, 


“ Boys, I have bad news for you,'" said French, in his 
abrupt way. He was veiy pale, but he was quite firm and 
quiet. He was a good Christian, and believed in the divine 
origin of misfortunes — those which come on a man when 
he has heedlessly outrun the constable, sunk mines on hope, 
and began building without a margin, among the rest. Also 
he was a Clinton, and knew how to carry himself. The 
mine has gone wrong, and Samson wants a pile to put it 
right; and Mason has struck for money, which adds a pret- 
ty penny more to the bill. The resources of the estate are 
- pretty well exhausted, and things are as black as they can 
well be to hold together at all. To mortgage more of the 
land would be to reduce our income to less than we could 
live on; we make a tight fit as things are. To sell part to 
save the rest would be the half dozen to the other six. And 
yet I don't see what else we can do. What say you, Mau- 
rice?" 

It is a bad alternative, sir," said Maurice, slowly. “Is 
there no other way?" 

“ Failing the draining of the water of its own accord and 
the finding of ore in cart-loads, I see none," said French, 
dryly. “ Of course the success of the mine is always on the 
cards; but what we want now is present help. We may real- 
ize our wildest hopes, and I firmly believe we shall; but 
we may be following after a will-o'-the-wisp, and find our- 
selves at last up to our necks in a bog, which will be the 
ruin of everything. That, however, has nothing to do 
with the question of to-day, which is. How are we to get 
money to go on with?" 

“ Can we not make the mine into a company?" asked 
Maurice. “We should have to share the profits, but we 
should pouch the ready cash." 

“ Water-logged? — not yet paying its expenses? — a dead 
loss so far, and only hope to go on? — not a very tempting 
bait for those city scoundrels, I fear!" said French, with 
the country gentleman's disdain for the men who make 
their money by means other than the higher grades of the 
four covenanted professions. ‘ ‘ It takes faith, you see, my 
boy, to believe that things will come right when they look 
bad; and that is just the quality these low-minded sharpers 
lack. Ho, we can not make the mine mto a company. 
And I should be sorry to do so even if we could. " 

“ The wood is not available?" then said Maurice. 


MILLIOITAIRE AI^D MISER. 


^173 


Not a stick/ ^ returned French. 

There was silence. Lady Jane looked hard at her elder 
son, and Maurice, with one rapid glance to her, turned his 
eyes to the floor as if meditating. 

Lanfrey had not yet spoken. His opinion had not been 
asked, and would not have been received had it been given. 
From his position as the minor member — the younger son 
— of only presumptive importance in the succession,, he was 
but one of the spectators, one of the chorus, and in no 
sense a principal. 

I am loath to sell,^^ again said French. “ It is such a 
cursed confession of failure! And how the gossips will 
chatter over it!^^ 

If the mine is safe, we can borrow on the future,-’^ said 
Maurice. 

Oh, it is safe enough in the long run, if only we can 
hold on,'’^ said his father. 

To have doubted that would have been to lay down his 
arms and yield himself prisoner to ruin and despair. It 
was his one sheet-anchor in the rising storm — ^his one star 
in the gloomy sky. 

“The mine is safe enough, he repeated. “ It wants 
feeding meanwhile — like Angus^s ‘ greedy glede. ^ But ul- 
timately it must succeed — else all geology is at fault. 

Then we must borrow of the bank,^^ said Maurice. 

Again Lady Jane looked at her son hard in the face, and 
again he let his eyes fall to the floor, with a sense of a man 
who has had a reprieve. He was not afraid of his father. 
If he chose to marry Yetta Oarew, he would. Ifc was only 
that he was not sure of himself, and by no means deter- 
mined on his choice. 

“We can try,^-’ said French. “ I do not think we shall 
get much there. I fancy Arrol has not made a good thing 
of it of late; and I should not care to hawk my securities 
about to a London firm. These things are managed best at 
home where one has one^s hand on them. We can but try, 
however. 

“Then,^^ said Maurice, boldly, looking at his mother 
before he turned to his father, “if all other ways fail, fa- 
ther, there is always one we can fall back on. ” 

“ Yes.^’^ said French, with ominous gravity. He scented 
the danger, partly because of Lady Janets unwonted silence. 


174 


PASTOK CABEW^ 


“ There are the Carews. We can always make that old 
villain shell out, as he ought. 

Lanfrey looked at his brother as French had looked at 
Lady Jane last night. For the moment he thought Mau- 
rice has gone mad. 

‘‘ I should be glad to know your method/'’ said French, 
with the same ominous gravity as before. The ice was get- 
ting thin and the skating insecure. 

“ He would pay something for our friendship,'’^ said 
Maurice, tentatively. 

Which you would be willing to sell?^^ returned his fa- 
ther. 

‘‘ Needs must when the devil drives,^ ^ said Maurice, with 
a light, disdainful laugh. We might do worse. '’^ 

“ Scarcely,"’^ said French. ‘‘ Gentlemen do not sell their . 
social countenance in general. I should be sorry to set the 
example.'’^ 

He 'Spoke in the slow, severe, monotonous way which best 
expresses indignation. It is like the stillness before the 
storm 

It would be a spoiling of the Egyptians perfectly justi- 
fiable,’’'’ said Maurice. 

We are not Jews,’^ replied his father. 

It would be perfectly justifiable, and more as an act of 
self-interest, but not as one of principle,-” said Lanfrey, 
hastily, but firmly too. 

‘‘ Between the son who has no proper pride, and the other 
who has no common sense, said French, shrugging his 
shoulders impatiently. 

Well, sir, if you do not like the idea of sale, let us 
make it one of purchase,^ ^ said Maurice, first flushing, then 
turning pale and livid. Let us make a bond of it, as re- 
spectable as the law and the Church know how. I will 
marry Miss Carew. She is pretty, well-bred, and has no 
fault but her birth — which is not her fault so much as her 
misfortune. This will help us out of all our difficulties, 
and no one will have cause to complain. - 

Lanfrey started to his feet, hot, eager, passionately dis- 
turbed. French also rose to his in slower and heavier but 
none the less burning indignation. 

Either your mother has proposed that as a woman ^s 
first thought, or you have corrupted your mother and made 
her your advocate, he said. '' Marry Paston Oarew^s 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


175 


daughter? You, Maurice, the eldest son and heir to the 
estate! Are you in your right mind, boy? It is too early 
in the day to suppose that you are drunk, else, by Heaven ! 
I should think you too far gone to know what you were say- 
ing. Ne^er, Maurice — never! If that is your only way 
out of the wood, you may put it in your pocket and shut 
up. No Clinton shall fall so low as that with my consent!'’^ 
’ You forget the respect due to Miss Carew herself/' said 
Lanfrey, with more passion than his father. “ What 
makes you think that she would marry you? Do you hold 
her as the kind of girl to be married without her own con- 
sent? Has she already given you hers?" 

‘‘ My dear Lanfrey, keep calm, let me beg of you," said 
Maurice, with a pitying kind of smile and false air of sooth- 
ing. ‘ ‘ I know that you are a little gone in that quarter 
yourself; but lam not jealous of you; I can afford it. Be- 
tween you and me, dear boy, there is not much choice 
wLich; and a Clinton need not fear a refusal from Paston 
Carew's daughter. If one commits the folly — ^yes, I allow 
it is a folly — of marrying a pretty woman, one must expect 
her to be admired. Admire ^way! That hurts no one. But 
hands off. Master Lanfrey ! " he added, savagely. ‘‘ From this 
hour I warn you off Miss Carew; else we shall have to set- 
tle our accounts together — not quite like two brothers — ex- 
cept of the Cain and Abel type, " he said, with a laugh 
more savage than all the rest. 

‘‘Now, boys, none of this confounded rubbish!" said 
French, sternly — pushing back Lanfrey, who had come up 
to his brother-^still seated. ‘ ‘ Go back to your place, Lan, 
and remember who you are, and what you owe your mother 
and me. That you should quarrel about a girl like Paston 
Carew's daughter is a disgrace and a dishonor. Let me 
have no more of it, else I shall know what to say to you." 

“ It is no quarrel," said Maurice. “ I simply propose 
myself as the family sacrifice. I will marry Miss Carew— 
if you approve, as you will in time — and her dowry will re- 
store our financial position. The quarrel, if any, is on 
Lanfrey' s side. He has spooned the girl from the first. I 
have not. He has no sense of family duty as his excuse. I 
have. Mine is sacrifice; his inclination; that is all the dif- 
ference. And I venture to say the difference is radical. ' ' 

“ Yes — the difference between insult and respect," cried 
Lanfrey, hotly. “ How dare you speak of Miss Carew as if 


176 


PASTOK CAREW, 


she were a girl you had only to ask and have! It is an in- 
famy — a brutal insult!'’'’ 

‘‘My dear boy — as easy as that/-’ said Maurice, snap- 
ping his fingers. “ I know women; you know books. 
Trust me, old Carew’s pretty deplach would jump at the 
Clinton estate. She might jump even at you without the 
estate. You are a Clinton, if a queer one. But at me, 
the eldest son — you see I am modest, and put it on my con- 
dition rather than my person — at me; well, old Past on 
would bless his stars for the good day’s work, and she 
would wipe her lips, drop her best courtesy, and say, ‘ If 
you please, kind sir, when you will. 

“ Maurice, you are a damned scoundrel!” cried Lanfrey, 
vindicating his Clinton blood and denying his philoso23hy. 
And again he strode to his brother, as he had done before. 

Maurice, who had remained seated on the window-sill 
where he had first placed himself, came to his feet in his 
turn. His fighting blood was up, like his brother’s, and 
for a moment it seemed as if a fratricidal kind of tussle 
would have taken place, had not French again interposed, 
thrusting Lanfrey back by one vigorous push on his chest, 
holding Maurice in restraint by his arm. 

“ Boys,” he said, in the low voice of concentrated anger 
they knew too well not to respect, “ if you do not know 
how to behave like gentlemen, by Heaven I will teach you! 
Am I to have my sons brawling like two Irish navvies in a 
pot-shop? And for what and whom? — a man and his 
daughter who are not fit to be named among us Clintons, 
excepting as our enemies; base-born, ignorant, insolent! 
For shame! Silence, sir! — not another word!” — to Lan- 
frey, who was about to speak. “ Let the thing drop, and 
never have the foolhardy courage to renew it. I called you 
here to consult what we could best do to redeem the estate 
from its embarrassments, not to listen to mad proposals 
for a disgraceful marriage, to which I will never consent, 
so help me God! nor yet to see my sons fight over a base- 
born girl like two cocks for a Avorm in the farm-yard!” 

“ Father,” said Lanfrey, passionately, “ I. will not allow 
such Avords to be said of Miss Carew. Even you, sir, have 
no right to use such an expression. It is a shame toward 
one so good, so pure, so noble!” 

“I told you so,” said Maurice. “He is gone on the 
girl, and if he has his head, the family Avill lose all round. 


MILLIOKAIRE AND MISER. 177 

It will degrade its name and race, and gain nothing in com- 
pensation — which will be a worse look-out than my plan.-’-’ 

“ Now, boy,^^ said French, to his younger son, “ as you 
are not contributing very much to the solution of our pres- 
ent difficulties — on the contrary, are adding to them — per- 
haps it would be as well if you took yourself off. I agree 
with you, the girl is out of the discussion, and ought to be.. 
She may be as good as gold. I hope for her own sake she 
is; but she is Fasten Carew’s daughter, and so can never 
be mine.^'’ 

I warned you in time, Lanfrey,-’-’ said Lady Jane, break- 
ing silence for the first time during this heated controversy. 
“If you had had any common sense, you would have seen 
the difference between your brother^’s marrying an heiress 
for the sake of the family, and your doing so. His mar- 
riage would be a duty, yours a mere act of selfishness; for 
which, as Maurice says, there would be no excuse, because 
you only would profit, and all the rest would suffer. 

“ Mother! how can you, a woman with your own daugh- 
ters, speak in this way of a girl for whom, whatever her 
father may have been or done, we ought to feel only the 
tenderest respect? How can you suffer her name to be 
dragged into this discussion? Neither Maurice nor I have 
the right to speak of her as a hypothetical wife. She has 
given no encouragement to either, and we should not like 
our own sisters’ names to be bandied about as you have 
been bandying hers.” 

Something in Lanfrey’s tone and manner touched his fa- 
ther’s better nature. 

“ My boy,” he said, laying his hand on his son’s shoul- 
der, and speaking more kindly than before, “ if you are, as 
your brother says — but as I will not believe — seriously smit- 
ten with Miss Oarew, I advise you as a friend, before I 
command you as a father, to get rid of your infatuation as 
yQU would of a disease. It will only bring you pain and 
sorrow else. But tliis love is beyond the region of discus- 
sion. I do not believe it; and 1 will not. Now shut up, 
like a good fellow. We shall get on better without your 
fireworks. And, after all, it is more Maurice’s affair than 
yours, though you also have your place, if only you will be 
wise and keep the peace. ” 

“ Oh, we shall keep the peace, sir,” said Maurice, with 
a short laugh. “ These things do not settle themselves. by 


178 


PASTOK CAEEW, 


a bout at fisticuffs. Then/^ he went on to say, quickly, 
“ as that scheme is knocked on the head, and the well- 
Imed purse of this pretty quadroon of legitimacy is not to 
be thought of, the only remaining resource is a further loan 
from the bank pending the success of the mine. We must 
go down to the town to-day and make the best terms we 
can — you and I, sir. If we can sail over the present shal- 
lows, good, so far. The future must take care of itself. 

It is all we can do, ^7 said French, with a sigh. 

Lady Jane said ne\^er a word. She knew her husband, 
and how to take him. He was as hard and rugged as a 
cocoa-nut on the outside. Understand where and how to 
tap him, and you would come to the milk, which would 
run into any shape or manner of vessel you might choose. 
The marriage should take place in spite of all this bluster;' 
and the estate should be redeemed by the money of the man 
who had insulted the family by his birth, and injured them 
by his action. 

Her eyes said all this to Maurice, and he understood her 
smile and look, and slight, almost imperceptible, toss of 
her head, as clearly as so many words. His brother's pro- 
test too had roused in him that devil of angry opposition 
and determined mastery which possessed him so powerfully. 
It made him resolve to carry his point, against all odds. 
He would marry Yetta Carew, his father's prohibition, 
Lanfrey's evident inclination, and Paston’sname and shame 
notwithstanding. He would marry her, though no love 
worthy to be called love purified his baser feelings nor sanc- 
tified his fierce resolve. 

On his side, Lanfrey determined that he would save the 
woman, who was to him as liis embodied ideal, from a fate 
which he knew would be her life-long torture and degrada- 
tion. Save her, how? Let the means lie on the knees of 
the gods! The one thing to be sure of — he would save her 
from this marriage with his brother Maurice. And all this 
firm resolve, this fierce desire, was working in the ttvo 
without taking Paston into consideration, assuming him, in- 
deed, to be as if made of pith, of wax, of straw — a man of 
no account, without a will of his own, or the power of trav- 
ersing theirs. 


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ALPHABETICAL LIST. 


202 Abbot, The. Sequel to “ The 
Monastery.” By Sir Walter 


Scott 20 

788 Absentee, The, An Irish Story. 

By Maria Edgeworth 20 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 20 
388 Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 


Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lands?”. 10 
5 Admiral's Ward. The. By Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 
500 Adrian Vidal. By W. E. Norris 20 
477 Affinities. A Romance of To- 
day. By Mrs. Campbell-Praed 10 
413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fen- 


imore Cooper 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “Ouida” 10 

608 Agnes, By Mrs, Oliphant. First 

Half 20 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 20 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G, P. R. James 20 
14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By ‘‘The 

Duchess” 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 10 

636 Alice Lorraine, By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half 20 

636 Alice I^orraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 20 

660 Alice; or. The Mysteries. (ASe- 

a uel to ‘‘Ernest Maltravers.”) 

y Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. By Lewis Carroll. With 
forty - two illustrations by 

John Tenniel 20 

97 All in a Garden Fair. By Wal- 
ter Besant 20 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 

Other Tales. Mrs. Forrester. 10 

4 1 


47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oli- 


phant 20 

253 Amazon, The. By Carl Vosmaer 10 
447 American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

176 An April Day. By Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson 10 

403 An English Squire, By C. R. 

Coleridge 20 

648 Angel of the Bells, The. By F. 

Du Boisgobey 20 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water, By Robert Buch- 
anan 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 


750 An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 
750 An Old Story of My Farming 

Da 3 's. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 
93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 


raphy 20 

395 Archipelago on Fire, The, By 

Jules Verne 10 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 
247 Armourer’s Prentices, The. By 

Charlotte M, Yonge 10^ 

224 Arundel Motto, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

347 As ik^von Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

541 ‘‘ As it Fell Upon a Day.” By 


560 Asphodel. By Miss M, E. Brad- 

don 20 

540 At a High Price. By E. Werner 20 
352 At Any Cost. By Edw. Garrett 10 
564 At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander. . . 10 
598 At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
192 At the World’s Merc 3 ^ By F, 

Warden 10 

287 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 1(J 

> 


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Murray 10 

T60 Aurelian; or, Rome in the. Third 

Century. By William Ware. 30 
74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

730 Autobio}?raph 5 ' of Benjamin 
Franklin, The 10 


828 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 106 

(Translated from the French 
of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) 106 

First half 20 

338 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 429 
(Translated from the French 
of Fortuu6 Du Boisgobey.) 

Second half 20 394 

241 Baby’s Grandmother, The. By 

L. B. Waif Old 10 299 

342 Baby, The. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

443 Bachelor of the Albany, The. .. 10 362 
683 Bachelor Vicar of Newforth, 

The. By Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe 20 259 
65 Back to the Old Home. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 10 

551 Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By 

Rosa No uchette Carey 20 300 

99 Barbara’s History. By Amelia 

B. Edwards 20 

234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery. 642 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 54 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 317 

Dickens. Second half 20 

653 Barren Title, A. T. W. Speight 10 58 

731 Bayou Bride, The. By Mrs. 

Maiy E. Bryan 30 

794 Beaton’s Bargain. By Mrs. Al- 
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717 Beau Tancrede; or, the Mar- 
riage Verdict. By Alexander 240 

Dumas 20 602 

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Duchess” 10 186 

86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 
593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 149 

Riddell 20 

581 Betrothed, The. (I Promessi 555 

Sposi,) Alessandro Manzoni. 20 711 
630 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. By M. Linskill 20 
466 Betw'een Two Loves. By Char- 502 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

‘‘Dora Thorne” *. 20 

476 Between Two Sins. By Char- 364 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 770 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 

the author of ‘‘A Golden Bar ” 10 746 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 
geant 10 419 

553 Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E, 

Braddon 20 

320 Bit of Human Nature, A. By 783 
David Christie Murray 10 

~ 1 ^) I' - 


411 Bitter Atonement, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

*‘ Dora Thorne ” 2fl 

430 Bitter Reckoning, A. By the au- 
thor of ‘‘ By (brooked Paths ” 10 
353 Black Dwarf, The. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

302 Blatchford Bequest, The. B.y 
Hugh Conway, author of 

‘‘ Called Back ” 10 

Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 30 

Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

Boulderstone ; or, New Men and 
Old Populations. By William 

Sime 10 

Bravo, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Bride from the Sea, A. By 
Charlotte M, Braeme, author 

of ‘‘ Dora Thoime ” 10 

Bride of Lammermoor, The. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

Bride of Monte-Cristo, The. A 
Sequel to ‘‘ The (jount of 
Monte-Cristo.” By Alexan- 
der Dumas 1C 

Bridge of Love, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Britta. By George Temple 10 

Broken Wedding-Ring, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of ‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 20 

By Mead and Stream. By Chas. 

Gibbon 20 

By the Gate of the Sea. By D. 
Christie Murray 10 

Caged Lion, The. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

Called Back, By Hugh Conway 10 
Camiola; A Girl With a Fortune. 

By Justin McCarthy 20 

Canon’s Ward, The, By James 

Payn 30 

Captain’s Daughter, The. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

Cara Roma. By Miss Grant 20 

Cardinal Sin, A. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of ” Called 

Back” 30 

Carriston’s Gift. By Hugh 
Conway, author of “Called 

Back ” 10 

Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 10 

Castle of Otranto, The. By 

Horace Walpole 1# 

Cavalry Life; or. Sketches and 
Stories in Barracks and Out. 

By J. S. Winter 20 

Chainbearer, The; or. The Lit- 
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Fenimore Cooper '. 20 

Chantry House. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBE ARY.— Pocket Edition. 


790 Chaplet of Pearls, The : or. The 
White and Black Hibunmonr. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 
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White and Black liibaumont. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 
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Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

First half 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
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Second half 

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Miss M. E. Braddon 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 

Rowson 

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Great Mistake” 

713 ” Cherry Ripe.” By Helen B. 

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By Lord B.yron 

676 Child’s History of England, A. 

By Charles Dickens 

657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. Far- 

jeon 

631 Christowell. R. D. Blackmore 
507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 
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Walter Scott 

532 Clara Vaughan. ByR.D. Black- 

more 

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Gabor iau 

782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du 

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493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

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769 Cometh Up as a Flower. By 

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221 Coinin’ Thro’ tlie Rye. By Helen 

B. Mathers 

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By F. Du Boisgobey 

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Basil 

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104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 
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262 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part I 
262 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

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590 Courting of Mary Smith, The. 

By F. W. Robinson 

787 Court Royal. A Story of Cross 
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258 Cousins. By L. B. Walfbrd .... 
649 Cradle and Spade. By William 
Sime 


Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 26 

Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. Second half 20 

Cricket on the Hearth, The. 

By Charles Dickens 10 

Crime of Christmas Day, The. 

By the author of “ My Ducats 

and My Daughter ”. 10 

Crimson Stain, A. By Annie 

Bradshaw 10 

Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 2C 

Curly; An Actor’s Story. By 
John Coleman. Illustrated. 10 
Cut by the County; or, Grace 
Darnel. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don 10 

Dame Durden. By “Rita”... 20 
Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. First half .. .' 20 

Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. Second half 20 

Dark Days. By Hugh Conway 10 
Dark House, The : A Knot Un- 
raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 10 
Daughter of Heth, A. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

Daughter of the Stars, Tlie, and 
Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way. author of “ Called 

Back ” 10 

David Copperfleld. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

David Copperfleld. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. II 20 

Days of My Life. The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

Dead Heart, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

Dead Man’s Secret, The ; or. The 
Adventures of a Medical Stu- 
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Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 2# 

Deldee; or, The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

Diana Carew ; or. For a Wom- 
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Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 10 

Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Part 1 20 

Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Part II 20 

Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen. By Jules Verne 20 

Dick’s Sweetheart. By “The 

Duchess ” 20 

Di.ssolving Views. By Mrs. An- 
drew Lang 10 

Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 
jendie .. 10 


630 

20 630 

108 

20 

376 

20 

706 

20 629 

504 

20 

544 

10 

10 

446 

20 34 

10 34 

20 301 

609 

10 

20 81 

251 

10 

20 

22 

10 

22 

20 

527 

20 

305 

20 

20 374 

20 

567 

20 

286 

20 

115 

20 

744 

20 

350 

20 

10 478 

20 

478 

20 

20 87 

20 486 

20 536 

20 

185 

20 

- 


TRE SEASIDE LIBRARY. —Pocket Edition. 


594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 

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108 Doctor Marigold. By Charles 

Dickens 

629 Doctor’s Wife. The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

721 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. . . 
107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 

107 Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 

282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- 
Donald 

•71 Don Gesualdo. By“Ouida.”.. 
779 Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. 

By Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 
51 Dora Thorne. By Charfotte M. 

Braeme 

284 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 

678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil iSay 

665 Dove in the Eagle’s Nest, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 

585 Drawn Game, A. By Basil 

151 Ducie Diamonds, The. By C. 

Blatherwick 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 
er's Secret. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon 

465 Earl’s Atonement, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 

665 England under Gladstone. 1880 
—1885. By Justin H. McCar- 
thy, M.P 

521 Entangled. By E. Fairfax 

Byrrne 

625 Erema; or, My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 

118 Eric Dering. “ The Duchess ” 
96 Erling the 13old. By R. M. Bal- 

lantyne 

90 Ernest Maltravers. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton 

786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies. By 
author of “ Petite’s Romance ” 
162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton 

764 Evil Genius, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 

470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

62 Executor, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 

18 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. 
Mathers 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 
Failles. By R. E. Francillon. 
688 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. 

Fairfax Byrrne 

261 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- 
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Fair Maid of Perth, The; ©r, 

St. Valentine’s Daj% By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

Fair Mysterj', A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

Fair Women. By Mrs. Forrester 20 
Faith and Unfaith. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

Family Affair, A. By Hu-:h 
Conway, author of “ Called 

Back” 20 

Family Difficult 3 % The. By Sa- 
rah Doudney 10 

Far From the Madding Crowd. 

B.y Thomas Hard.y 20 

Fashion of this World, The. B}' 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 20 

Fatal Dower, A. Bv the Author 
of ” His Wedded^Vife ” .... 10 
Fatal Lilies,, The. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

Fatal Marriage, A. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 10 

Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

George Eliot 20 

Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

File No. 113. By Emile Gabo- 

riau 20 

Finger of Fate, The. By Cap- 
tain Mayne Reid 20 

Fire Brigade, The. By R. M. 

Ballantyne 10 

First Person Singular. By Da- 
vid Christie Murray 20 

Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

Beale 10 

Flower of Doom, The, and 
Other Stories. By M. Betham- 

Edwards 10 

For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
■ gle for Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

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“ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

Foreigners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 90 

For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Ha}' 2§ 

For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 
For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

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For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

Allen 20 

“ For Percival.” By Margaret 

Veley 20 

Fortune’s Wheel. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

Fortunes, Good and Bad, of a 
Sewing-Girl, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley 10 

Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 20 


417 

20 

10 626 

20 

20 727 

30 

20 

543 

20 

20 338 

10 

690 

10 

798 

20 

10 680 

20 246 

20 299 

20 

20 548 

10 693 

542 

10 

7 

575 

20 

95 

20 

674 

20 199 

20 579 

20 

10 745 

10 

20 156 

20 173 

20 197 

20 150 

278 

20 608 

20 712 

10 586 

171 

10 

468 

20 

20 216 

C41 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


438 Found Out. By Helen B. 

Mathers 

S33 Frank Fairlegh; or, Scenes 
From the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 
805 Fi*eres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 1st half 

805 Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander.- 2d half 

226 Friendship. By “Ouida” 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

Mrs. Forrester 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 
Romance. By Hawley Smart 

2^ Gambler’s Wife, The 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 
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549 George Caulfield’s Journey. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 

365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 
unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 
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and Other Stories. By Flor- 
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613 Ghost’s Touch, The. By Wilkie 

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300 Gilded Sin, A. By Charlotte 
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508 Girl at the Gate, The. By 

Wilkie Collins 

844 Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie 

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140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 

647 Goblin Gold! ' ' By May Crom- 

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450 Godfrey Helstone. By Georgi- 
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153 Golden Calf, The. By Miss M. 
E. Braddon 

806 Golden Dawn, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 

666 Golden Flood, The. By R. E. 

Franciilon and Wm. Senior.. 
172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 
292 Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 

667 Golden Lion of Granpere, The. 

By Anthony Trollope 

758 “Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By 

Rhoda Broughton 

S56 Good Hater, A. By Frederick 

Boyle 

801 Good-Natured Man, The. By 

Oliver Goldsmith 

710 Greatest Heiress in England, 

The. By Mrs. Oliphant 

139 Great Expectations. By Charles 
Dickens 


Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in 
Seven Checks. By R. E. Fran- 
ciilon 10 

Great Mistake, A. Bj^ the author 

of “ Cherry ” 20 

Great Treason, A. By Mary 

Hoppus 30 

Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 1st half 20 
Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 2d half 20 
Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By Wm. Black 20 

Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 

By Charles Reade 20 

Griselda. By the author of “ A 
Woman’s Love-Story” 20 

Haco the Dreamer. By William 

Sime 10 

Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover 20 
Hard Times. By Chas. Dickens 10 
Hariy Heathcote of Gangoil. By 

Anthony Trollope 10 

Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever .* 20 

Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
Haunted Chamber, The. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

Haunted Man, The. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh 20 
Headsman, The; or. The Ab- 
baj^e des Vignerons. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

Healey. By Jessie Fothergill. 26 
Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

Heart of Jane Warner, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

Heart of Mid-Lothian, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 29 

Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 
Deuce. By David Christie 

Murray 20 

Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or. 
The Romance of a Young 
Girl. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 
Heir Presumptive, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 
Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 10 

Heniietta’s Wish; or, Domi- - 
neering. By Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler 10 

Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

Her Mother’s Sin. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

Hidden Perils. Mary Cecil Ha\' 10 
Hidden Sin, The. A Novel. . . .“. 20 


135 

10 

244 

20 

170 

20 

751 

20 

20 751 

138 

10 

231 

20 

677 

20 

20 597 

20 668 

10 663 

84 

•622 

20 

20 191 

569 

10 785 

10 169 

20 

533 

385 

10 

10 572 

167 

20 

444 

10 

391 

10 

695 

20 

20 741 

10 

689 

10 

20 513 

10 535 

20 

160 

20 

576 

20 

10 19 

20 

196 

20 518 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAE T.- Pockei EdUion. 


297 Her Marriage Vow; or, Hilary’s 
Folly. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne 
294 Hilda. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 
658 History of a Week, The. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford 

)65 History of Henry Esmond, The. 

By William M. Thackeray. .. 
461 His Wedded Wife. By author 
of “ A Fatal Dower ” 

378 Homeward Bound; <jr, The 

Chase. By J. F. Cooper.... 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.”) ByJ. 

Fenimore Cooper 

800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. ist half 
800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 
652 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 

600 Houp-La. By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 

748 Hurrish : A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 

703 House Divided Against Itself, 

A. By Mrs. Oliphant 

248 House on the Marsh, The. By 

F. Warden 

851 House on the Moor, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 

481 House That Jack Built, The. 

By Alison 

754 How to be Happy Though Mar- 
ried. By a (graduate in the 
University of Matrimony. . . . 
198 Husband’s Story, A 


389 Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 

Thomas 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 

807 If Love Be Love. D. Cecil Gibbs 
7l5 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. FoiTester 

762 Impressions of Theophrastus 

Such. By George Eliot 

303 Ingledew House. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

796 In a Grass Country. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 

804 In Cupid’s Net. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 
Stories. B}^ “ The Duchess ” 
324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 

672 In Maremraa. By ” Ouida.” 1st 

half 

672 In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 2d 

half 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 
Half 


Innocent: A Tale of Modem 
Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 20 

In Peril and Privation. By 

James Pa}m 10 

In Quarters with the 25th (The 
Black Horse) Dragoons. By 

J. S. Winter 10 

In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

A r mitt 20 

In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 
In the Golden Days. By Edna 

Lyall 20 

In the Middle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 90 

In the West Countrie. By May 

Crommelin 20 

Introduced to Society. By Ham- 
ilton Aid6 10 

lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

“ I Say No;” or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. By Wilkie Col- 
lins .' 30 

“ It is Never Too Late to Mend,” 

By Charles Reade 20 

Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott. 20 

Jack. By Alphonse Daudet 90 

Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

By Juliana Horatio Ewing. . . 10 
Jack Tier ; or, The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 1st half 20 

Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 2d half 20 

James Gordon's Wife, A Novel 20 
Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bront6 20 
Janet’s Repentance. By George 

Eliot 10 

Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

Joan. By Rhoda Broughton. . ^ 

John. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

John Euil and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell 10 

John Bull's Neighbor in Her 
True Light. By a “Brutal 

Saxon” 10 

John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock 20 

John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

John Maidment, By Julian 

Sturgis 20 

John Marchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Joy; or. The Light of Cold- 
Home Ford. By May Crom- 
melin 20 


Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 
Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black 20 

Judith Wynne. By author of 

“ Lady Lovelace ” ... 20 

June. By Mrs. Forrester...... ^ 


604 

10 

577 

10 

638 

10 

20 759 

20 39 

738 

20 

682 

20 452 

383 

20 

122 

20 233 

20 

235 

10 

28 

26 

20) 534 

752 

10 

416 

20 

743 

10 

743 

20 519 

10 15 

728 

142 

10 767 

20 357 

20 203 

20 289 

10 

11 

10 209 

20 694 

570 

10 

4S8 

10 

619 

10 ■ 

20 265 

20 

332 

20 80 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAHT. — Pocket Edition. 


661 Just As I Am ; or, A Living Lie. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

80 < King Arthur. Not a Love Story. 

13y Miss Mulock 20 

753 King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black.. ^ 

435 Klytia ; A Story of Heidelberg 
Castle. By George Taylor. . . 20 


161 


497 


733 Lady Branksmere. By “The 

Duchess” 20 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss 

/ M. E. Braddon 20 

219 Lady Clare ; or. The Master of 
the Forges. From the French 

of Georges Ohnet 10 

469 Lady Damer’s Secret. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeine, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The Mi- 

ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 20 

105 Lady Gwendoline’s Dream. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

506 Lady Lovelace. By the author 

of “Judith Wynne” 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

Lady of Lyons, The. Founded 
on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton 10 

Lady’s Mile, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

652 Lady With the Rubies, The. By 
E. Marlitt 20 

269 Lancaster's Choice, By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. By George 

Temple 10 

32 Land Leaguers, The. By An- 
thony Trollope 20 

•64 Ijast Days at Apswich 10 

40 Last Days of Pompeii, The. By 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

130 Last of the Barons, The, By Sir 
E. Bulwer Lj'tton. 1st half.. 20 
130 Last of the Barons, The. By Sir 

E. Bulwer L^’^tton. 2d half.. 20 
60 Last of the Mohicans, The. By 

J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls' 
Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 20 

455 Lazarus in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 

386 Led Astray ; or, “ La Petite 
Comtesse.” Octave Feuillet. 10 
258 Legend of Montrose, A. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

164 Leila ; or. The Siege of Grenada. 

By Bulwer Lytton 10 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Maiy Cecil 

Hay 20 

662 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 
road of Life. Hy Frank E. 

Smedley . . 20 

(71 


437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens; First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of IVIartin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 24 

774 Life and Travels of Mungo 

Park, The 10 

698 Life’s Atonement, A. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “ Rita ”. 20 
307 Like na Other Love. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or. Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 
of Boston. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
an’s Love. By Mrs. Sumner 

Hayden 20 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 
179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

45 Little Pilgrim, A. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 10 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Marryat 10 

111 Little School-master Mark, The. 

By J. H. Shorthouse 10 

804 Living or Dead. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back ” 20 
797 Look Before You Leap. By 

Mrs. Alexander 20 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By 

Mabel Collins 20 

67 Loi*na Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. First half 2fl 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. Second half 20 

10 


473 Lost Son, A. By Mary Linsklll. 

354 Lottery of Life, The. A Story 
of New Yoi-k Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham .. 20 
453 Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobe}^ 20 

179 Louisa. By Katharine S. Mac- 

quoid 20 

742 Love and Life. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

273 Love and Mirage; or. The Wait- 
ing on an Island. By M. 

Betham-Ed wards. 16 

232 Love and Money; or, A Peril- 
ous Secret. By Chas. Reade. IS 
146 Love Finds the 'Way, and Other 
Stories. By Walter Besant 
and James Rice 1C 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


306 Love for a Day. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 

813 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs. 

Cashel-Hoe^* 

573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 
175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wilkie 

Collins 

757 Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

Alma Tadema 

291 Love’s Warfare. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

118 Loys. Lord Berresford. By 

'• The Duchess ” 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

Mrs. J. H. Needell 

589 Luck of the Darrells, The. By 
James Payn 

370 Lucy Crofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 

44 MacleodofDare. Wm. Black. 
526 Madamd De Presnel. By E. 

Frances Poynter 

845 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 

78 Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black 
510 Mad Love, A. By the author of 

” Lover and Lord ” 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 

141 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 
Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 

377 Magdalen Hepburn ; A Story of 
the Scottish Reformation. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 

449 Maiden All Forlorn, A, and Bar- 
bara. By “ The Duchess ”... 
64 Maiden Fair, A. Charles Gibbon 
121 Maid of Athens. By Justin 

McCarthy 

m Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 

803 Major Frank. By A. L. 6. Bos- 

booni-Toussaint 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. First half 

T02 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 

'lins. Second half 

277 Man of His Word, A. By W. 

E. Norris 

688 Man of Honor, A. By John 

Strange Winter. Illustrated . 
217 Man She Cared For, The. By 

F. W. Robinson 

371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. 

Oliphant.... 

755 Margerj^ Daw. A Novel 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Ba r. .G. J. Whyte-Melville 
773 Mark of Cain, The. By Andrew 

Lang 

184 Marriage of Convenience, A. 
By Harriett Jay. 


Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon.. 20 

Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

Master of the Mine, The. By 
Robert Buchanan 20 


Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Parti. 10 
Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part II 10 
Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 


Verne. (Illustrated.) Part III 10 
Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 10 

Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 

Wem 3 ’s.s Reid 20 

May Blossom ; or. Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 

Maj’-or of Casterbridge, The. By 

Thomas Hardy 20 

Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgraj’, 
including some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Mental Struggle, A. By “ The 

Duchess ” 20 

Mercedes of Castile; or. The 
Voyage to CathaJ^ Bj’ J. Fen- 

imore Cooper 20 

Merchant’s Clerk, The. By Sam 

uel W’arren 10 

Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

First half 20 

Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

Second half 20 

Midnight Sun, The. By Fi’edrika 

Bremer 10 

Midshipman, The, Marmaduke 
Meriy. Wm. H. G. Kingston . 20 
Mignon. By Mrs. Forrester... 20 
Mignon ; or, Booties’ Baby. Bj^ 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 

Mikado, The. and other Comic 
Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 

Sullivan ’ 2»l 

Mildred Trevanion. Bj^ “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 
“ Afloat and Ashore.”) Bj*^ J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

Mill on the Floss, The. Bj' 

George Eliot 20 

Milly's Hero. By F. W. Robinson 20 

Millionaire, The 20 

Minister’s Wife, The. Bj' Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 
Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 10 
Mistletoe Bough, The. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 2(J 


480 

10 615 

20 132 

20 

646 

10 

578 

10 

578 

10 578 

10 398 

20 723 

20 330 

10 

791 

20 

337 

20 

20 

20 

10 771 

424 

20 

406 

20 

31 

20 31 

10 187 

10 

763 

20 

729 

20 492 

20 692 

10 

20 390 

20 414 

20 

3 

10 

157 

10 182 

205 

20 

399 

20 369 

20 

245 

20 315 

10 618 

10 

- 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Pocket Edition. 


298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 
ret Veley 10 

Mixed Motives 10 

2 Molly Bawn. “The Duchess ” 20 
159 Moment of Madness, A, and 
Other Stories. By Florence 

Marry at 10 

125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The, 

By William Black 20 

201 Monasteiy, The. By Sir Waiter 

Scott 20 

119 Monica. By “The Duchess”.. 10 
431 Mpnikins, The. ByJ. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau, Vol. 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. II 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

102 Moonstone, The. Wilkie Collins 20 
808 More Bitter than Death. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

By Queen Victoi’ia 10 

116 Moths. By “Ouida” 20 

495 Mount Koyal. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion." By M. 

G. Wightwick 10 

675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thacke- 
ray 20 

25 Ml'S. Geoffrey. “The Duchess” 20 
606 IMrs. Hollyef. By Georgiaua M. 

Craik 20 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

By L. B. Walford 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

Rhoda Broughton 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

635 Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

696 My Ducats and My Daughter. 

By the author of “ The Crime 

of Christmas Day ” 20 

405 My Friends and I. Edited b}'^ 

Julian Sturgis 10 

786 My Hero. By Mrs, Forrester.. 20 
799 My Lady Green Sleeves, By 

Helen B. Mathers 20 

623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

724 My Lord and My liady. By 

Mrs. Forrester. 20 

504 My Poor Wife. By the author 

of “ Addie’s Husband ” 10 

433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

871 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Parti 20 

m 


271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II .’ 20 

366 Mysterious Hunter, The; or, 
The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

662 Mystery of Allan Grale, The, By 

Isabella Fyvie Mayo 90 

454 Mystery of Edwin Drood, The. 

By Ciias. Dickens 20 

514 Mystery of Jessy Page, The. 
i and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

43 Mystery of Orcival, The, B}' 

Emile Gaboriau 26 

255 Mystery, The. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “ Doctor Edith Romney ”. 20 
666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 

574 Nabob, The: A Story of Paris- 
ian Life and Manners. By Al- 

phouse Daudet 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton. 20 
509 Nell Haffenden. By Tigne Hop- 
kins 20 

181 New Abelard, The. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 


464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 

II 20 

52 New Magdalen, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

105 Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 20 
565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 
290 Nora’s Love Test. By Maiy 

Cecil Hay 20 

595 North Country Maid, A. By 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 
Nouchette Carey. . . 20 

765 Not Wisely, But Too Well. By 

Rhoda Broughton SO 

614 No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 

766 No. XIII. ; or, 'J'he Story of the 

Lost Vestal. Emma Marshall 10 
640 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge 30 


Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

211 Octoroon, The. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

l83 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto 

ries. By Florence Marryat. 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


10 Old Curiosity Shop, The. By 

Charles Dickens 

410 Old Dady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 

C4.5 Oliver’s Bride. By Mrs. Oliphant 
41 Oliver Twist. By Chas. Dickens 

605 Orabra. By Mrs. Oliphant 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A. Tale of So- 
ciety. By Mrs. Forrester — 
143 One False, Both Fair. By John 

B. Harwood 

342 One New Year’s Eve. By “ The 

Duchess ” 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor. By Captain Fred Bur- 
naby 

498 Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 

655 Open Door, The. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 
12 Other People’s Money. By 

Emile Gaboriau 

639 Othmar. By “ Ouida ” 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 

131 Our Mutual Friend, By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 
by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 


630 Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By Thom- 
as Hardy 

687 Parson o’ Dumford, The. By 

G. Manville Feun 

238 Pascarel. By “Ouida” 

617 Passive Crime, A, and Othei* 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 
309 Pathfinder, The. By J. Feui- 

more Cooper 

720 Paul Clifford. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton, Bart 

671 Paul Carew’s Story., By Alice 

Comyns Carr 

825 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories. 
By Hugh Conway, author of 

“Called Back” 

449 Peeress and Player. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 

613 Percy and the Prophet. By 

Wilkie Collins 

776 P6re Goriot. By H. De Balzac 
314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill . . . 
668 Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. 

oliphant 

133 Peter the Whaler. By William 

H, G. Kingston 

192 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir 

Walter Scott 

E26 Phantasies. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women. By 

George Macdonald 

66 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 
E. Braddon 


Philistia. By Cecil Power 2i 

Philosophy of Whist, The. By 

Wiiliam Pole 20 

Phyllis. By “ The Duchess ” . . 20 
Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 
thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”. 10 
Piccadilly, Laurence Oliphant 10 
Pickwick Papers, By Charles 


Dickens. ■ Vol. 1 20 

Pickwick Papers. By Chai’les 

Dickens. Vol. II 20 

Pictures From Italy, and The 
Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 
Dickens 20 


Picture, The, and Jack of All 
Trades. By Charles Reade, .. 10 
Pi6douche, a French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey... 10 
Pioneers, The ; or. The Sources 
of the Susquehanna. By J, 


Fenimore Cooper 20 

Pirate, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 
Polish Jew, The. (Translated 
from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- 

Chatrian 10 

Portent, The. By George Mac- 
donald 10 

Portia. By “The Duchess ”... 20 
Portrait, The. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

Poverty Corner. By G. Manville 

Fenn 20 

Prairie^ The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 29 

Precaution. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Pretty Jailer, The. By F, Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half.*. 20 

Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

Pretty Miss Neville. By B, M. 

Croker 20 

Prima Donna’s Husband, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 


thony Trollope, First Half.. 20 
Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. Second Half 20 
Primus in ludis. By M. J. Col- 

quhoun ^ 10 

“ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.^ 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Prince of Darkness, A. By F. 

Warden 90 

Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 
son 10 

Princess Dagomar of Poland, 
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264 

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318 

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329 

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6 

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558 

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310 

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422 

697 

20 

697 

20 

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249 

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487 Put to tlie Test. Edited by 

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T4D Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 

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Rose and the Ring, The. By 
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Melville '.... 20 

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296 

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648 Shadow in the Corner, The. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

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Hall Caine 20 

393 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
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881 Squire’s Legacy, The. By Mary 

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158 Starling, The. By Norman 

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4S6 Stella, By Fanny Lewald ..... 20 
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Hoey 20 

0 


145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 
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610 Story of Dorothy Grape, The, 
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756 Strange Adventures of Captain 


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363 Surgeon’s Daughter, The. By 

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316 Sworn to Silence; or, Aline 
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559 Taken at the Flood. By Miss 

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117 Tale of the Shore and Ocean, A. 

By William H. G. Kingston.. 20 
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343 Talk of the Town, The. By 

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696 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

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49 That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black aO 

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t75 Three Brides, The. By Char- 
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775 Thi ee Clerks, The. By Anthony 

Troll’ -pe 20 

124 Three Feathers. By Wm. Black 20 
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867 Tie and Trick. By Ha wley Smart 20 
485 Tinted Vapours. By J. Maclareu 

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603 Tinted Venus, The. By F.Anstey 10 
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714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

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849 Two Admirals. The. A Tale of 
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784 Two Miss Flemings, The. By au- 
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663 Two Sides of the Shield, The. 

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311 Two Years Before the Mast. 

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407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 


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460 Under a Shadow. By Char- 
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718 Unfairly Won. By Mrs. Power 

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634 Unforeseen, The. By Alice 

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508 Unholy Wish, The. By Mrs. 

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735 Until the Dj^y Breaks. By 
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691 Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Mnrra.v 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 
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27 Vanity Fair. By William M. 

Thackeray 20 

426 Venus s Doves. By Ida Ash- 
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46 Very Hard Cash. B^' Charles 

Reade 20 

59 Vice Versa. By F Anstey 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished. B.y 

Mary Ce<-il Hav 20 

583 Victory Deane. By Cecil Gi iffith 20 

545 Vida's Story. By author of 

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734 Viva. Bv Mrs. Forrester 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin' Disraeli, Earl of 
Beaconsfield. First half 20 


793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli. Earl of 
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204 Vixen. Bj" Miss M E. Braddon 20 
777 Voyages and Travels of Sir 

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659 Waif of the “ Cynthia,” The. 


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270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
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270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
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621 Warden, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

266 Water-Babi-*s, The. A Fairy 
Tale for a Land-Baby. By the 
Rev. Charles Kingsley. .. — 10 

512 Waters of Hercules. The 20 

112 Waters of Marah,The. By John 

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359 Water-Witch. The. By J. Feni- 

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401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 
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458 Week of Pas.sion, A; or. The Di- 
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628 Wedded Hands. By the author 

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400 Wept of Wish-Ton- Wish, The. 

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637 What’s His Offence? A Novel. 20 
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Try.st ” 10 

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380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

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428 Z6ro: A Stoiy of Monte-Carlo. 

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522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or, The 
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MUNRO’S- PUBLICATION& 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

ORDINARY EDITION. 


GEORGE MUNRO« Mnnro’s PubHshins Honse« 


The followinjr works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition* 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, 
on receipt of the price, by the publisher. Parties ordering by mail will pieaso 
order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

80 Her Dearest Foe , 20 

86 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale < . 20 

870 Ralph Wilton’s Weird. 10 

400 Which Shall it Be?. 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow.. 10 

1231 The Freres . . 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate ................. .;...... 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap. ... 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt............ 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward. 20 

1721 The Executor. 20 

1034 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKa 

18 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth. 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. lO 

51 Kilmenv 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


68 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type).... 10 

604 Madcap Violet (larire type) -. 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

890 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

461 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

960 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People.. . . . 10 

1656 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRA.DDON’S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd. V 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Levels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory t . . 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret. . .* 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 20 

469 The Doctor’s Wife - 20 

4(69 Rupert Godwin y. 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBEABY.— Ordinary Edittan. 




481 Vixen 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft. 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. 20 

639 A Strange World 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest .'. . 20 

562 John Marchmont’s Legacy . 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) — 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner ; 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or» Robert Ainsleigh. 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part I. 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part II. 7 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 1(1 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed .....10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The Misthitoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley . 20 

811 The Professor. 10 - 


THE SEASIDE LIBEART. — Ordina/ry Edition, 


H29 Wuthcring Heights 1$ 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of VVildfell Hall 20 

t098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life lo 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande 20 

901 Three Sewing Girls 20 

101£ His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

11^ Vendetta; or. The Southern Heiress . 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

170S Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated )..... 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garlani 20 

1880 Lottie an J Victorine ; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story. 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Meri vale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS, 

10 The Woman in White 2C 

14 The Dead Secret .... 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

''38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 2C 

76 The New Magdalen — 10 

94 The Law and The Lady ' *20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

438 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life ....... 19 


THE SEASIDE LIBRART.—Ordina/ry Edition. 


561 The Yellow Mask 10 

688 Fallen Leaves 20 

664 Poor Miss Finch 20 

676 The Moonstone 20 

606 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood * 10 

028 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Tinae 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 “I Say No” 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water- Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20' 

761 Wing-and-Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afioat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afioat and Ashore”) , 20 

1569 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times 10 


THE SEASIDE LlBBAEY.—Qrdina/ry Edition. 


118 Great Expectatioas. 20 

187 David Copperfield 20 

W Nicholas Nick! eby 20 

;313 Barnaby Rudge 20 

^218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) .... 10 

247 Martin Chuzzle wit. 20 

*■^272- The Cricket on the Hearth. 10 

'"^1284 Oliver Twist. 20 

0:289 A Christmas Carol. 10 

01297 The Haunted Man 10 

'■i304 Little Dorrit 20 

‘5 808 The Chimes 10 

( - 817 The Battle of Life. . . ..... ... . v i . 10 

0 ‘ 325 Our Mutual Friend... ..... 20 

0$337. Bleak House. .... 20 

352 Pickwick Papers. 20 

-. 359 Somebody’s Lutrgage 10 

,^367'Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

; ;372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

^ 375 Mugby Junction .10 

^[“403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground - 10 

1498 The Uncommercial Traveler ■ 20 

; ; 521 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

jd25 Sketches by Boz 20 

839 Sketches of YoUng Couples 10 

.827 The Mudfog Papers, &c. 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood. • 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England.. 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 


WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF. “ DORA THORNE.” 


449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or, True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

846 Dora Thorne 20 

921 At War with Herself. 10 



THE 


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Price 35 Cents Per Copy : $3.00 Per Year. 


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“ HAPPY AS A KING.” 

The New York Fashion Bazar is a magazine for ladies. It 
contains everything which a lady’s magazine ought to contain. 
The fashions in dress which it publishes are new and reliable. Par- 
ticular attention is devoted to fashions for children of all ages. Its 
plates and descriptions will assist every lady in the preparation of 
her wardrobe, both in making new dresses and remodeling old ones. 
The fashions are derived from the best houses and are always prac- 
tical as well as new and tasteful. 

Every lady reader of The New York Fashion Bazar can make 
her own dresses with the aid of Munro’s Bazar Patterns. These are 
carefully cut to measure and pinned into the perfect semblance of the 
garment. They are useful in altering old as well as in making new 
clothing. 

The Bazar Embroidery Supplements fonn an important part of 
the magazine. Fancy work is carefully described and illustrated, 
and new patterns given in every number. 

All household matters are fully and intere-stingly treated. Home 
information, decoration, personal gossip, correspondence, and recipes 
for cooking have each a department. 

Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “ The Duch- 
ess,” author of “ Molly Bawn,” Lucy Randall Comfort, Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 
and Mary E. Bryan. 

The stories published in The New York Fashion Bazar are the 
best that can be had. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 TO 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


THE CELEBRATED 


SORMER 


GEAND, SQUAEE AND TJPEI&HT PIANOS. 



ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPUEAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER *fc CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 


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The enviable po- 
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They are used 
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IT TRAVERSES THE MOST DESIRABLE PORTIONS OF 


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^ ao 4;nwi'l’g 



JMMInUILIi, 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER 


By MRS. E. LYNN LINTON 


SECOND HALF, 




If TO 27 VANoeW/VTCf^ 

:J'I ew'Yo^i^** 




. By subscription 35-‘^0 per annum, 
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The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, Issued Tn^eekly. 
riorhtPfi 1 h V M iinro— Entered dt the Post Office nt w < 






THE..KING.OF STOR-Y I’APERS. 


THE 

NEW YORK FIRESIDE COMPANION. 

A PAl’EU FOE THE HOME CIRCLE. 

PURE, - BRIGHT AND INTERESTING. 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the 
best of living fiction writers. Its Detective Stories are the most absorbing 
ever published, and its specialties are features peculiar to this journal. 

A Fresh Sermon by Rev. T. l)e Witt Talmage is 
Published in Every Number, 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION is the most interesting weekly paper 
publisheu in the United States, embracing in its contents the best Stories, 
the best Sketches, the best Humorous Matter, Random Talks, Fashion 
Articles, and Answers to Correspondents, etc. Nc expense is spared to 
get the best matter. 

Among the contributors, to The Fireside Companion are Mary E. 
Bryan, Lucy Randall Comfort, Mrs Alex. McVeigh Miller, Laura Jean 
Libbey, “Old Sleuth,” Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne,” 
Mary C. Freston, Annabel Dwight, Clyde Raymond, Kate A. Jordan, 
Louise J. Brooks, Charlotte M. Stanley, etc. 


TERMS:— The New York Fireside Companion will be sent for one 
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Address GEORGE MUNRO, 

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LADIES! 


It you appreciate a Corset that will neither break down nor roll up in wewr^ 
TRY BALL’S CORSETS. 

If you value health and comfort, 

WEAR BALL’S CORSETS. 

If you desire a Corset that fits tlie first day 3'ou wear It, and needs no 
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Owing to their peculiar construction it is impossible to break steels in 
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The Elastic Sections in Ball’s Corsets contain no rubber, and are warranted 
to out -wear the Corset. 

Every pair sold with the following guarantee: 

“If not perfectly satisfactory in every respect after three weeks* 
trial, the money paid for them will be refunded (by the dealer). 

Soiled or Unsoiled.” 


The wonderful popularity of Ball’s Corsets has induced rival manu- 
facturers to imitate them. If you want a Corset that will give perfect satia- 
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Patented Feb. 22 , 1881 . 

And see that the name BATiL is on the box; also Guarantee of the 

Chicago Corset Co. 

AWARDED HIGHEST PRIZES WHEREVER EXHIBITED. 

For Sale all l..eadinsf l>ry Ooods Healers in tbe 
United State«$, Canada and Eng^land. 


BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER: 

A FEW DAYS AMONG 

OUR SOUTHERN BRETHREN. 

BY HENRY M. FIEED, D.D., 

Author of “ From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Homf* “ From Egypt 
to Japan," “ On the Desert," “ Among the Holy Hills," and 
“ The Greek Islands, and Turkey after the War." 


Of Doctor Field’s new book the New York Observer says: “ Doctor Field has 
written many good books of travel in foreign lands; but this little book of 
letters from our own United States, and which he has called ‘ Blood is Thicker 
THAN Water,’ will be judged by many to be the best of all.” 

The New York Independent says: “ The volume has a large part of its charm 
in the fact that it is brimming over with reminiscences of the war, pictures of 
battles succeeded by peace, with handshakings of Federals and Confederates, 
all content now to belong to one general United States. Doctor Field has suc- 
ceeded wonderfully in investing with rare interest a somewhat prosaic and 
common tour by connecting it with the high sentiments of patriotism and na- 
tional faith. While the volume is written for the ordinary intelligent reader, 
may we venture to remark that it is just such a book as we would like to put in 
the hands of the young; and which, though not professedly a religious book, 
we should be very glad to have shove out of the Sunday-school Library many 
more pious but really less Christian and less useful volumes.” 

The New York World says: ‘‘ Doctor Field’s brilliant descriptions of the 
scenes visited, his reminiscences of the war, taken from the lips of ex-Confeder- 
ate officers, the vivid contrast he draws between the horrors of battle and the 
present plenty and contentment of peace and prosperity, delight the reader 
and lead to the regret that the volume is not twice as long as it is. . . . It is 
not merely a pleasing book of travel ; it is a volume which should have a wide 
influence in further cementing the bonds which now hold the north and south 
together in the strength and affection of indissoluble imion.” 


For Sale by all Boohellers and Newsdealers. 

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Sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of 25 cents. Address, 

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IT to Vniidewater Street, New York. 


PASTON CAREW, 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


BY 

MBS. E. LYNN LINTON. 


SECOND HALF, 



NEW YORK: 


GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
J7 TO 27 Vandkwater Street. 


MRS. E. LYNN LINTON^S WORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (P^KET EDITION): 

NO, 

123 lone Stewart . . . . . . 

817 Stabbed in the Dark 

886 Paston Carew, Millionaire and Miser. First half . 
886 Paston Carew, Millionaire and Miser. Second half 


Rici:. 

20 

10 

30 

20 


Paston Oarew, Millionaire and Miser. 


CHAPTER XX. 

GREEK AKD GREEK. 

The flooding of the Brent Fell mine became known in 
the place almost before the Clintons had the news. Among 
others it came to Paston Carew as a flood of light, a ploud 
of perfume, a jewel of rare price, a gift of infinite value. 
.It gave the opportunity for which he had so long waited, 
and was an interposition of Providence. It was the hour — 
where he stood as the man. 

As soon as there was any chance of seeing the pleasure- 
loving and somewhat indolent banker, he rode down to the 
town, forestalling French, of whose action he was morally 
sure. It was the only thing, in fact, that the crippled 
country gentleman could do. He must borrow — prior to 
the last straw, when the camePs back would break. He 
must entangle himself closer and yet more closely in the 
net of mortgage; and when he was so tightly bound that 
he could not stir another inch — when he could not raise a 
solitary hundred pounds on the overburdened land — then 
he would have to seU. And he, Paston, would be the pur- 
chaser. 

Meanwhile that facilis decensus must be made smooth 
and easy; and Hugh Arrol must be enabled to play the 
part of helpful guide and friend, carrying French Clinton 
by flowery paths to his swift and sure destruction. 

Of the banker himself, Paston had that kind of suspi- 
cion which comes from knowledge of human nature and the 
destruction of personal illusions. What one man has done, 
another is capable of doing, he thought. And he did not 
believe in unique monstrosities. It is no uncommon thing 
for men in places of trust to abuse that trust, and laugh in 
their sleeves at the simple who confided in them. The daily 
press is seldom without some story of a fraudulent trustee 
— a lawyer who has dealt with his client^s securities — a 
banker who has speculated illegally for the sake of great 
gains, and who joins hands with the lawyer in his ruin of 
thousands. Paston knew too much of business ways and 
men not to understand, though he had not tested, the loose 
pins in Hugh ArroPs chariot. He had lent unwisely, and 


180 


PASTON CAREW, 


he lived too freely. He was too much trusted by prett} 
women who carried to him" more than their deposits, and by 
elderly ladies who busied themselves about the state of his 
soul. To Paston the Bible was true throughout, from the 
first chapter to the last; but the truest text of all was this: 
“Woe unto you when all men shall speak well of you!^^ 
and he applied the words and their meaning to Hugh Arrol. 

For himself, he would not have trusted the banker with 
a solitary rupee; but he knew his social alphabet too well 
to let his true mind be seen. Though he never committed 
himself to distinct advocacy, he never expressed an open 
doubt; and the banker himself — who also knew the world 
— was left in ignorance of how far the dust which served so 
well for others blinded the Anglo-Indian’s sharp eyes. 
Meanwhile the two men were apparently on the best and 
most cordial terms in the world ; and Paston called at the 
bank oftener than anywhere else in the town. 

“ By all accounts French Clinton is in a bad way,” he 
said this morning, after he had informed Mr. Arrol that it 
was a sultry day, and looked like a storni — in the queer 
way in which English people tell each other the state of 
the weather, as if it were a fact known only to the initi- 
ated. And when Mr. Arrol had contributed his meteoro- 
logical mite to the treasury of commonplaces, and informed 
Mr. Carew that it certainly was sultry, and most surely 
threatened a storm, then said Paston suddenly, apropos of 
nothing: “By all accounts, French Clinton is in a bad 
way. Have you heard?” 

“ No, What?” answered Mr. Arrol. 

He knew about the flooding as well as his visitor; but to 
profess ignorance was the best policy with Paston Carew, 
and the safest game was an inverse kind of “ bluffing.” 

“ Brent Fell mine is flooded. I am surprised you have 
not heard the news,” said Paston, 

“By George!” said Hugh Arrol. “And it looked so 
like a good thing!” 

“ There will be the devil to pay at the Hall,” said Pas- 
ton. “ You don’t pump out a mine for a trifle; and with 
all that building on hand!” 

“Ah! they have been paying the old man off a pretty 
long time, if all one hears is true,” said Mr. Arrol, jaunt- 
ily. He mav prove an awkward customer to them one 
of these days.’’ 


MILLIOIiTAIRE AND MISER. 


181 


“ Sure/^ said Piston. 

There was a pause. 

‘‘ They will have to borrow again/^ resumed Paston. 

Hugh Arrol gave a sharp look upward afc the word. 
‘‘ What does he know?” he thought. 

“ They have dipped deep as it is/^ the other went on to 
say. “ They will have to go a few fathoms lower. They 
are bound to borrow. 

“ Very likely/"’ said the banker. 

Again there was a pause, and again Paston was the first 
to break it. 

‘‘ Those iron-works are in a mess, I hear, and the paper 
mills are as rotten as their own stuff,^^ he said, suddenly. 
“ Men don’t seem able to make their way — do good busi- 
ness here. Somehow every one seems to stick. ” 

have heard the mills were shaky. Of myself I do 
not know. And I have faith in the iron- works,” said Hugh 
Arrol. 

He had, as a matter' of fact, advanced so much to both 
concerns that he had not only severely crippled himself, 
but was gravely compromised m more ways than one. 

Paston smiled. He knew all about that as well as he 
knew of loans to the Clintons and the flooding of the mine. 
It amused him to see that Mr. Arrol imagined he could 
throw that dust in his eyes — his! the sharpest to be found 
between dawn and dusk, look where you would. 

“ Well for you,” he said. “ I was told you had assisted 
both concerns largely. I am glad that it is not so. You 
■would have burned your fingers else.” 

Over the handsome face of the banker came a curious 
little cloud — a faint and fleeting spasm, no stronger than 
the stirring of a tarn when the wind just catches the edges 
and runs over the surface like a shadow more than a ripple. 
He seemed to reflect for a few moments, then said, with his 
usual half-careless manner and debonair smile: ‘‘ I do not 
say that I have not helped them — ^to a certain degree. As 
a neighbor I felt bound. to do so. We men of business, you 
see, Carew, must have bowels of compassion like any other, 
and one’s neighbors have claims it is not humane to deny.” 

‘‘•Yes,” said Paston, with commendable gravity; “I 
quite agree with you. Now I myself am reputed a hard 
fellow enough, because I am not inclined to let myself be 
'mposed op; but what— the peuce take it!” he said, with a 


182 


PASTON CAEEW, 


strange and sudden outburst as of confidence and kindli- 
ness — a throwing away of his ordinary defense-work and 
laying down his weapons of distrust and silence — ‘‘ I could 
not be hard on a friend, and a neighbor has claims, as you 
say, and I feel. If I knew, now, of any one to whom I 
could do good in a quiet way, I would with pleasure. I 
would not care to have it published, you know. I have no 
fancy for that kind of fame. But if I could assist any one 
in a pinch, I would not hesitate. To you, Arrol, for exam- 
ple, I am not ungrateful, and I always remember that you 
were my first friend here.'"’ 

‘‘ Oh, I did nothing that any one else would not have 
done,/^ said Arrol, with the air of a modest man who does 
good by stealth and does not wish to be overpraised. I 
was glad to welcome you as a neighbor, and to do what I 
could for you in the purchase of Mock-Beggar ^ ^ — he had 
done nothing but receive the purchase-money and pass it 
on. “ Any one else would have done the same. That little 
dinner, though, did put you in a good position, did it not? 
It gave you the best people, failing the Clintons, not avail- 
able.^^ 

Surely, returned Paston; ‘‘and as for anyone else 
doing the same, none would — so kindly — so generously. 
These are things a stranger does not easily forget. 

“ AVhat does the old fox mean? What does he want?^^ 
thought Mr. Arrol, as he smiled with the confiding inno- 
cence of a school-boy who has just received his prize. And, 
“ Will that fetch the vain fool?^'’ thought Paston, as he 
threw into his face and manner the bland generosity of a 
professed philanthropist. 

The two men sat looking at each other— each face like a 
Grecian mask through which the eyes alone were real. 
They were like American gamblers. Each man hid his 
cards, showing only to himself the indication in the cor- 
ners. Which would yield first: Which would throw down 
the first knave: 

“ I will remember what you'say,^^ then said Hugh Arrol, 
still smiling. “ If ever I should want a friend— a backer 
in any enterprise, and I may — who knows? I will come to 
you. "" 

“ Do so,’^ said Paston; “ and I will not fail you. 

“ It will cost Clinton a pile to clear that mine,^’ then 
said Mr. Arrol, after a short pause. 


MILLION-AIRE AND MISER. 


183 


‘‘ It will be a big job/"' said Paston. 

‘‘ He will be bound to borrow/^ returned the other. 

‘‘ Of course you will lend. The mine is ultimately safe, 
by all accounts. 

He thought just the contrary. He believf^d it to be no 
more solid than one of the sieves of the Danaides. 

have a good many of his securities already,'’^ said 
Mr. Arrol, a little reluctantly. “ But land is safe — it can 
not run away, or come to unforeseen disaster — earthquakes 
not counting as likely dangers in England. 

“ If you were disposed to hold off you would have him 
in a said Paston. 

‘‘ I should not do that,’’ said Arrol, nobly. 

No — ^you will go on; but at least with valid security?” 
Paston returned, affirming and inquiring in a breath. 

‘‘ Certainly — with security,” said Mr. Arrol. “ My phi- 
lanthropy would not lead me so far as to my own ruin, for a 
neighbor’s benefit,” he added, laughing. 

“Well, remember what I have said already,” said Pas- 
ton rising. 

The banker rose too — playing with his paper-knife. 

“ If you would not mind giving me a helping hand, 
now,” he said, with well-put-on reluctance. “ I sh^ould be 
glad to assist Clinton, but I have not much ready cash 
available. And he will want ready cash. It will be a 
friendly thing to set him up in gold — paid down; and I 
scarcely could at this moment, without some little annoy- 
ance. ” 

“ Willingly,” answered Paston, a grim smile stealing 
over his face. “ Hand me over his securities, and I will 
take up the risk. ” 

“ Not without?” laughed the banker, uneasily. 

“Not without,” laughed Paston, dryly. 

‘ ‘ I can not give them to you to-day, ” said Mr. Arrol. 

He had borrowed money on them already, for his own 
account — charging higher interest than he paid, and 
pocketing the difference. 

“ No? But I presume you both have and will have some 
kind of security to offer me?” said Paston, gravely. 

• It began to look like the real thing, and there must be 
no more trifling. 

“ Of course! of course! That is the advantage of land, 
as I just said,” returned Hugh Arrol. “ It can not run 


184 


PASTON CAREW, 


away, and you can lend up to the hilt — ^you are always 
sure/^ 

“ How much do you think he will want to-day asked 
Paston. 

Mr. Arrol named a rather formidable sum. I could 
lend that on the security of such and such fields and 
farms, he continued, indicating some of the choicest bits 
of land left free. 

“Do so,^^ said Paston. “Make no difficulty — ^no de- 
mur. I will supply you with the funds, and you will hand 
me over the securities. We are agreed. And French Clin- 
ton will come to you before the day is many hours older. 

- The two men shook hands with apparent cordiality — the 
banker thinking: “What is his game? to get the estate? 
well! that is no business of mine. A set of spendthrifts 
like the Clintons must go to the wall at last;^'’ and Paston 
in his turn thinking: “ Now I have the threads in my 
hands. I can ruin this fat fool when I like. He has not 
been clever enough for his role of knave, and I can sell 
up the Clintons after I have demolished him.-’-’ 

Meanwhile they parted in apparent cordiality; and Hugh 
Arrol felt his heart all the lighter, seeing the day of dis- 
covery removed by just so much. 

As Paston mounted his horse and ’jurned his head from 
the banker^s door, the Clinton buggy drew up — Maurice 
driving his father. 

“ If I were superstitious I should say it was a bad omen 
to see that fellow, said French, with a slight shudder. “ I 
wish he had broken his neck before he had come herel-*^ 

The evil omen did not seem to have taken effect, how- 
ever, for nothing could be more obliging, more liberal, 
more sympathetic, than the banker. He would lend them 
to their heart’s desire; and the big figures did not frighten 
him. Just for form’s sake he would take securities, and 
lay the loan as a mortgage on the land. Just for form’s 
sake, you know. In reality, he said, he lent it on the faith 
of the Brent Fell mine. He was as sure as French himself 
that in that mine would be found — eventually — the fortune 
of the Clinton estate. It wanted time and' feeling — time 
and ready money— and the future would redeem the assur- 
ance of the past. He flattered French Clinton’s hopes, and 
gave an extra impetus to his resolve to go deeper and deeper 
yet into the jungle of expenditure on the faith of those 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


185 


hopes; but as he lent the money readily, and those securities 
were only a mere form, things stood on velvet; the collar 
which had pressed nigh to strangulation was loosened, to 
sufficient freedom, and French Clinton could once more 
breathe freely. Yet, in spite of his relief, he- looked grave 
and* gloomy when they left the bank, and turning to his 
son, said again: “ What the deuce was that fellow Paston 
Carew doing there 

‘‘ I fancy they are chums somehow,^' answered Maurice. 
‘‘I suppose old Arrol thinks it wise to keep in with the 
flesh-pots. I^ot that he would get much from such a 
hunks as that fellow is, if all one hears be true, unless he 
had a quid pro quo to offer. The old miser doe^nT bleed 
too freely 

“Ido not see his quid pro quo,” said French. Then 
he added, with diy meaning, “ He has no son.-’^ 

“If he had, I question if they would be such good 
friends, returned Maurice. “ Paston Carew will look 
higher than a local banker for his daughter. 

“ He may look higher than he will reach,^^ said French. 

“ He niay,^^ said his son. “ And yet he has money 
enough to command pretty well what he likes. ” 

“From parvenus, perhaps — from the true blood cer- 
tainly not,^^ was the reply, to which Maurice made the 
soinewhat audacious rejoinder: 

“ Weill let us see what the mine will do. If it succeeds, 
we can hold our own as we choose. If it does not, we must 
do the best we can! And between selling the estate and 
redeeming it with Paston Carew's money, I do not myself 
see a choice.'^ 

“I do,'’ ^ replied French, firmly. And Maurice let the 
conversation fall without aji answer. 


CHAPTER XXL 
“though not the rose.-’’ 

During all this eventful morning Lanfrey had been eat- 
ing out his heart in the futile way of self-torture known 
only to those who have will but no power, and whose strong 
desires are kept in check by a still stronger curb. As the 
younger son, he was of but small account in the family 


186 PASTON CAREW, 

transactions. At the best he was only incidental, not direct 
— of possible but not actual importance. And out of moral 
and intellectual harmony as he was with his father and 
mother, he had not even that influence wliich comes to one 
who prophesies smooth things, advises the course already 
decided on, and sets his sails to the dominant wind. 

In the council that had been held he had had no place 
beyond that of a mute listener. He had had nothing spe- 
cial to say, and he had not been asked even for his nothing. 
Monetary affairs were confusedly in a mess, and if the mine 
proved a failure, it would be hard to set them straight short 
of the supreme sacriflce. Failing the finding of ore in such 
quantities as would fill again the dried-up channel of that 
shrunken Pactolus, there would be nothing for it but to 
break the entail, confess to ruin, and s^ll the estate which 
had made the Clintons the local nobles for over four hun- 
dred years. All saw alike the grim shape of that dire spec- 
ter. There were no two words to be said; and had he 
spoken, his Amen would perforce have echoed their So 
must it be. His active part had come only when Maurice 
had insulted Yetta Carew by his proposal, and his father 
had doubled the insult by his opposition. Then he had 
broken out and delivered his soul of its burden. He had 
done no more good than if he had struck the rocks and 
flung his spear at the moon. He had simply been made to 
feel anew the impotence of the younger brother, and how 
he was only a unit behind the denominator — a minor mem- 
ber of the house, bound by the family traditions and con- 
strained by family ties, but valueless in himself. 

There was, however, always the larger sense of future 
freedom, when he should have made his own name, vindi- 
cated his own individuality^, established his own claims, and 
when the traditions he was now bound to respect would be 
no more binding than the past ordinances of the class- 
room. Meanwhile he suffered; and he suffered chiefly in 
that he was powerless to protect Yetta Carew from his 
brother’s insulting pretensions and his father’s injurious 
hostility. 

Oppressed and out of tune, all through, he ordered his 
horse and rode off into the road they called the Long Lane. 
He did not want the companionship of even Ethel; and he 
still less wanted one of his more lively and less sympathetic 
sisters to ride with him and drag him from his thoughts. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 187 

He wanted only to be alone that he might carry on his 
futile self-torture undisturbed^ eating out his heart, and 
di’aping all life in mourning. The sultry day, too, added 
to this mental misery of obscure roots and poisonous ber- 
ries. Poor bundles of nervous sensibilities as we are, the 
plants themselves, to \^hich we have not yet given will nor 
mind nor moral force, are not more influenced by material 
things than we. An excess or deficiency of a gas we can 
not see, of electricity we can not weigh nor analyze, sets 
the whole world ajar, or tunes all the living chords to har- 
mony. And if we would trace events to their true causes— 
those which lie beyond the apparent — we should find the 
atmosphere and the magnetic currents primarily responsi- 
ble for half the crimes and wars, now set down to the free 
action of man^s intelligent will. 

The state of the collective Clinton mind to-day — includ-, 
ing Lanfrey as its most striking example — might then be 
handed over ‘to the account of the weather; and the sultri- 
ness of the day was the Dobbin on whose broad back was 
laid the black gloom and uneasiness possessing them. 

Riding on through the windings of the Long Lane, with 
no fixed purpose in view, Lanfrey was yet dimly conscious, 
in the. way of one half asleep, that he was going in the 
direction of the Knoll. The Knoll had been like an indis- 
tinct photograph in his mind. He had had no intention of 
visiting Mrs. Eilacombe when he had set out. Being on 
the way — always going in that direction — the indistinct 
photograph gradually grew clear; and desire woke with 
consciousness. He would call there. Thus he should be 
able to speak of Miss Carew. As he could not inquire of 
her state at Mock-Beggar, it was only his duty as a gentle- 
man to ask after her at the Knoll; also to ask after Mrs. 
Ellacombe herself. She had always been specially kind 
and good to him; she was the most charming woman in the 
place; it was the duty of every one to show her all possible 
attention; and she was the chosen friend and chaperon of 
Yetta Carew. Certainly he would call on her. He had 
intended to do so from the first. And with the thought he 
spurred his horse and set off at a hand-gallop — very differ- 
ent from the quiet pace at which he had been going. 

As he passed through the gate a-t the entrance to the 
drive, and rode up the rather sharp incline, he thought that 
really the Knoll was one of the most beautiful places in 


188 PASTOK CAREW, 

Beaton Brows. Set on the slope of a hill facing the west^ 
it caught all the glory of the sunsets and the sweetness of 
the south-west winds. Trees and flowering shrubs flourished 
in the gardens here as they flourished nowhere else; and 
there was a peculiar look of care and cleanliness in the beds 
and shrubberies which showed that the gardeners worked 
for praise as well as pelf, and for an employer who under- 
stood the method and delighted in the results. It was, he 
thought, what a garden should be, as opposed to the wild- 
ness of nature. Not that it was one of those mosaics of 
color, stiff in form and void of fragrance, dear to the souls 
of geometrical cultivators. It was as true a garden as 
Bacon ^s, if more elaborate, more artistic, as befits the pres- 
ent time — a garden where “ all rare blossoms of every 
clime grew as luxuriantly as those which the Eve of that 
Eden cherished where the sensitive plant grew. 

As Lanfrey drew rein at the door and stood beneath its 
rose-covered porch, looking at the window-beds, of fragrant 
mignonette, his heart felt lighter than at any moment be- 
fore of this miserable tormented morning; and when — Mrs. 
Ellacombe being at home — he went into the house, he felt 
like one stepping from gloom to glory. The rose had lent 
its sweetness to the vase; and Mrs, Ellacombe to-day had a 
charm beyond her own. 

Of the kind whom the young instinctively love and con- 
fide in, Lanfrey had yet never felt so strongly that wonder- 
ful attraction, that marvelous sympathy and softness of 
nature, which made Mrs. Ellacombe the beloved of all who 
knew her as she was. She was like the Venus of Milo, 
passed from the perfection of youth to the ripeness of later 
maturity, when the first touches of decay give only mellow 
tints and a richer savor. She was like Demeter, translated 
from the Mother of the world to the form of an English 
lady of gentle birth and breeding. Her skin was still fresh; 
her eyes were still bright; her smile was as ready as when 
she was a girl: her heart was as pure as when she first 
greeted the day and loved the night, and clasped the future 
in her arms as she dreamed. No living woman had more 
of the power, the sweetness, the sympathy of love than she. 
And in this lay the secret of her charm. She was the em- 
bodiment of love — maternal, human, helpful, sympathetic. 

Lanfrey had always liked and respected this Married 
Madonna of Beaton Brows. To-day he venerated and 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 189 

adored her. Her beauty — that tender beauty which still 
lingers with certain women of fifty and upward, and which 
is of a kind that all agree to admire because it excites 
neither jealousy nor rivalry — that beauty had received an 
extra grace, and her sweetness had mqre potency to charm. 
He would have liked to put his arms round her soft full 
matronly form and kiss her — with more boyish enthusiasm 
than he had ever kissed his own mother since he ceased to 
be a child that had to be taught limitations, and grew to be 
a man understanding impossibilities. As, however, he 
dared not do that, in fear of the little imps of convention- 
ality which even such women as Mrs. Ellacombe are bound 
to harbor, he merely held her hand an unnecessarily long 
time, while he looked at her with strange tenderness and 
gave utterance to a commonplace of the weakest and .fiat- 
test description. 

“ You got home all right yesterday, I hoper^^ 

Mrs. Ellacombe smiled. She had the gift of thought- 
reading, of rather a higher quality and more certain appli- 
cation than falls to the lot of the professionals who find 
pins, and copy, tant hien que mal, unseen diagrams, and 
mentally pictured elephants. 

‘‘ Yes,^^ she s^id; quite right, thanks. The proof — 
me void 

And Miss Carew?^^ 

“ And my child. I left her at her own door in perfect 
condition,^ ^ she returned ; a slight twinkle in her soft gray 
eyes accentuating the smile, which remained just as sweet 
as ever, but with a deeper dimple at the corners of her 
mouth. 

‘‘Was she tired asked Lanfrey. 

“ Perhaps a little — not much,'’^ she replied. 

“ And her arm? What a terrible wound that was; and 
to think that she hurt herself so sadly to help my mother, 
who, I must confess, had not been specially civil to her! It 
was an awful wound, Mrs. Ellacombe — ^^so long and so 
deep! It makes me shiver to think of it!^^ 

“ That scratch? It no longer smarted when I left her,^^ 
said Mrs. Ellacombe, with a seriousness that was more than 
commendable — that was profoundly admirable. 

“ I hope it will not be bad long. I hope it will leave no 
scar,^’ said Lanfrey, as much disturbed as if discussing the 


190 


PASTON CAREW, 


grave illness of one on whom the lives and well-being of 
hmidreds depended. 

I hope not; I should think not/^ said Mrs. Ellacomhe. 

‘‘ Thorns often have a kind of poison for the blood/^ 
said Lanfrey, searching out fresh causes for fear. And 
it would be such a pity if she were scarred! Her arms are 
so lovely! of such a beautiful shape and color! The attach- 
ment of the wrists is perfection. I know something of 
-anatomy, and her arms and hands and wrists are superbly 
modeled. Her skin, too, is perfect. It is like a child^s — 
like a flower. One might fancy it made of the petals of a 
flower; and I think the skin shows the character. Ho not 
you, Mrs. Ellacombe:^^ 

‘‘Yes; to a certain degree. I think there is a certain 
harmony through all our being,” was Mrs. Ellacombe’s 
generalized answer. “ Lavater was right to some extent; 
the chiromancers are right; the interpreters of character by 
the handwriting are also right. The mistake consists in 
making the part the whole, and what is only one among 
many indications absolute as a demonstration.’’^ 

“ The indications here all point one way,-” said Lanfrey. 
“ I do’' not think I have ever seen a more charming girl. 
In person, mind, manners, character, she is without a fault. 
She is my ideal of a true and beautiful woman. 

“ How are all your people:'’^ asked Mrs. Ellacombe, sud- 
denly. 

“"All right, thanks,^ ^ he answered. “Did Miss Carew 
enjoy the day yesterday?^ ^ 

“ Fairly well. Did you? Did Lady Jane and your sis- 
ters?’^ 

“ Only fairly well!” echoed Lanfrey, in a disappointed 
voice. He ignored the questions as if they had not been 
put. 

“ Well, you see she is young and sensitive, and her posi- 
tion here is a little strained, said Mrs. Ellacombe. “ She 
feels there is something against her and her father, but she 
does not know what it is. She knows nothing of her 
father ^s painful history.^’ Lanfrey looked at his hostess 
full between Ihe eyes when she said this. He did not wince, 
though to a Clinton it was always a sore subject; and to a 
young fellow who so warmly admired the daughter, it must 
have been an extra smart. None the less did he look at 
Mrs. Ellacombe steadily, so that she thought to herself as 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


191 


she spoke: “ He is prepared to accept even Patty Oarew!'^ 
‘‘But she has a sense of something wrong, something pain- 
ful, which she can not understand,’’^ continued Mrs. Ella- 
combe; “ and she is oppressed by it as by a nightmare or 
an unseen specter. 

“There is nothing against her, said Lanfrey, eagerly. 
“ And the father^s birth should not be perpetually remem- 
bered against him, as it is by so many — not by you, dear 
Mrs. Ellacombe, but by so many others. It is unchristian, 
not to say inhuman, to bring it to the front so continually. 
At the worst, it is only a social blemish, it is not a moral 
sin, a personal failure.^^ 

“ If jour father and mother would make up their minds 
to receive him?’'’ said Mrs. Ellacombe, tentatively. 

“ If they would!” echoed Lanfrey, fervently. 

“ It would make everything so much easier for every- 
body,” she continued. “ Their friendliness would put a 
stop to all that undergrowth of gossip which now springs 
up wherever the Carews appear. It would be a good thing 
for the neighborhood all round.” 

“You know them,” said Lanfrey, with unconcealed re- 
gret. “ They put their religion into their consistency, and 
make a virtue of their pride. And Mr. Oarew placed him- 
self in a wrong light from the beginning by the way in 
which he acted about Mock-Beggar. If it had not been for 
that, perhaps my father might have been won over. But, 
you see, he was both offended and wronged; and he is 
awfully tenacious of resentment. ” 

-“ Yet your brother paid Miss Carew a great deal of at- 
tention yesterday,” said Mrs. Ellacombe, after a pause, 
feeling her ground with care. “ So much so, indeed, as to 
be distasteful to her, as well as evident to others. She 
does not affect your brother — indeed, she positively dislikes 
him.” 

Lanfrey turned as white as a man does when the blood 
gathers round his heart with the grip he can not shake off 
and dare not show. His eyes were dark; his face had in it 
the true Clinton pride and haughtiness; and his voice v/as 
many notes lower than its usual scale as he answered, with 
an effort: 

“ My brother is a man who wants consideration for 
women. He thinks himself entitled by his position to throw 
his handkerchief where he pleases, and some day he will be 


192 PASTON CAREW, 

mortified more than he can bear. We often have discus- 
sions on this.^^ 

“ Discussions about Miss Carew and his manner toward 
her?^'’ asked Mrs. Ellacombe^ qhickly. 

Lanfrey hesitated. 

‘‘ We know her so little; and I was not with them yes- 
terday/^ he said, fencing with the question. 

And Mrs. Eilacombe respected his reticence — all the 
more in that she understood it, and therefore had nothing 
to gain by inquiry. 

The one thing I am afraid ol.” then said Lanfrey, 
after a pause, “ is that she will be told her father’s history. 
Some one will be sure to be cruel enough to tell her. There 
are always these coarse cruel minds which love to giv6 
pain; and if there be a personal or a family -secret which it 
is better should not be known, we may be sure some one 
will be found to tell it.” 

“ I fear the same thing,” said Mrs. Eilacombe; “but I 
hope against conviction.”- 

“ If it should be a man, he will have to reckon with me,” 
said Lanfrey, savagely. 

To which his hostess returned for answer a light laugh, 
and a look more earnest than her smile, as she laid her 
hand on his arm and said pleasantly, but with meaning: 

“And so create two scandals instead of one: Would 
that be quite kind, dear boy?” 

“ Would it be a scandal?” asked* Lanfrey, with mean- 
ing. 

“ Ah, now you are setting riddles, and I' am a bad 
guesser,” she answered, as pleasantly as before. 

Lanfrey took the hint, and said no more. The thoughts 
stirring in the depths were not to be fiung abroad even to 
Mrs. Eilacombe. That “ cherry without stone,” that 
“ orange without rind,” has to be carefully protected from 
even the tenderest handling if the fruit is to set and ripen. 
And he had no need of a confidante nor of a sympathizer. 

“ 1 should think of her first of all,” he said, after a 
pause. ^ “ I would cut off my right hand rather than injure 
any woman,” he added, to lighten the emphasis. 

“So I am sure,” returned Mrs. Eilacombe. “You 
were always chivalrous, even as a boy, and your manhood 
has not belied the early promise. ” 

Had he been a boy still, a more frankly joyous look could 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


193 


not havejushed Lanfrey Clinton face than now when 
Mrs. Ellacombe’s commendation seemed to carry with it 
the assurance of so much more than its own words. 

“I am proud of your good opinion/'’ he said, ingenu- 
ously; and then something that he heard made him start 
and listen — Mrs. Ellacombe listening too. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

AMONG THE FLOWERS. 

All doors and windows being open on this still and sultry 
day, the sound of carriage wheels driving up to the house 
was distinctly heard by the two sitting here in the cool 
semitwilight of the darkened room, looking across the 
garden to the hills beyond. Presently the wheels stopped; 
a woman’s light footstep was heard in the hall, coming 
familiarly through the passage unannounced; and Lanfrey 
started up with a rush of pleasure that filled the place as if 
with song and sunshine, as he knew by his heart, rather 
than recognized by his senses, the footfall and the breath 
of flowers, the rustle of ther garments and the advancing 
presence of her who was his womanly ideal — of Yetta 
Carew, the one forbidden of all w^omen to him of all men. 

As the girl came into the room and saw who it was 
standing there in the embrasure of the window — his face in 
shadow, his figure outlined against the light, his attitude 
expressing, eagerness as clearly as words, as eloquently as 
features — she stopped short at the door for one brief mo- 
ment, uncertain whether to go forward or turn back. Her 
action was as eloquent as his attitude, kt was not the 
hesitancy of repulsion; it was the timidity of joy — joy 
afraid of itself — joy that was in some sense unlawful — that 
might bring forth pain, and that already had had its shadow 
in confusion — joy that she feared to show and could not 
conceal. Then she remembered her cold resolve of yester- 
day, and how she was self-pledged to withdraw the friendly 
interest already given to Lanfrey and the affection showered 
on Ethel, and so went into the room with her head a little 
high and her face composed to the most chilly kind of in- 
difference she could assume. In vain! Her cheeks burned 
like fire, a faint little smile of irrepressible ^pleasure stole 


194 


PASTON^ CAREW, 


about her mouth and lighted up her face as if tha_sun had 
broken through the clouds, making that artificial coldness 
no more real than the specter formed of a shadow in the 
moonbeams. And when her hand was in his, her resolve 
was forgotten — the specter had melted away into thin air. 

All of which mute testimony on either side Mrs. Ella- 
combe understood and noted with that mixture of hope and 
fear — desire and perplexity — which seemed to be the norm 
in all things pertaining to the Olinton-Carew question. 

I am a dreadfully early visitor, dear Mrs. Ellacombe,^"’ 
stammered Yetta, conscious that she was nervous and 
ashamed of being glad. 

“ No apologies, my child. Besides, you see I have a 
visitor still earlier than you,^^ said Mrs. Ellacombe, with a 
kindly smile. ‘‘ And you know that I love to see you at 
any hour.'’^ 

“ Thank you/^ said Yetta, shyly. 

“ I was well inspired to come,’"’ put in Lanfrey, boldly. 

Because you are rewarded,^' laughed the hostess. 

“ I should have been rewarded by seeing only you,^^ he 
answered, laughing back her pleasantry. ‘‘ But we can 
not deny that two are greater than one, and that to double 
a pleasure is to increase it.’’ ■’ 

Mrs. Ellacombe only smiled her answer to this sum in 
moral arithmetic; Yetta dropped her eyes, then tried to 
look unconscious of the personal application, as hers; but 
the most wonderful lightening of the atmosphere had taken 
place all round, and the day seemed to be no longer op- 
pressive even to Mrs. Ellacombe, who was only an. incident. 
Had the young people, the principals, been asked, they 
would have said it was absolutely perjfect — a May day of 
supreme beauty. 

“How is the botany getting on?^^ asked Lanfrey of 
Yetta, more to make her talk that he might hear her voice 
than because of any special interest in her study, wherein 
he knew neither her place, nor her advance, nor yet her 
ignorance, nor her knowledge. 

“You must ask Mrs. Ellacombe,^ ^ she answered, look- 
ing at that dear woman as an easier matter than looking at 
Lanfrey Clinton. 

“ Why Mrs. Ellacombe and not yourself r"’"’ he said, smil- 

ing- 

‘ ‘ Because I do not know my own ignorance — and she 


3IILLI0KAIRE A^TD MISER. 


195 


does, as she is such a good botanist, was her simple an- 
swer. 

‘‘ Oh, she is making very fair way,^’ said Mrs. Ella- 
coinbe. She no longer calls hawkweeds little dandelions, 
and she knows the difference between a spearwort and a 
crowfoot. 

‘‘ I am sure you are what actors call a quick study,^^ said 
Lanfrey, looking at her with eyes brimful of tenderness and 
admiration. As if he did not think her supreme in all 
things! And as if he would not have found some special 
charm and grace in her slowness, had she been no more 
nimble- witted than a tortoise is nimble-footed. 

“ I like to know things,^^ said Yetta, vaguely,' glad that 
Lanfrey Clinton had praised her before Mrs. Ellacombe — 
only that Mrs. Ellacombe might think well of her. 

“ And your arm:^^ asked Lanfrey, suddenly grave. He 
had forgotten yesterday^ s hurt in to-day^s delight. 

Oh, notliing! quite well!’"’ she answered, with visible 
trouble. ‘‘ It was really nothing,^ ^ she added, hastily — and 
the deep red line, inflamed on either side, that scored her 
sweet flesh beneath her sleeve and gloves from the elbow to 
the wrist! But she did not care to be reminded of an in- 
cident all the circumstances of which had so humiliated 
and distressed her. 

“ You bear pain bravely, I see,^'’ said Lanfrey, with un- 
mistakable approval. 

The Clinton blood was of a fine deep red— it had no 
water in it to make it pale; and courage was a, Clinton 
quality. 

One can not cry out for trifles,'’^ she answered. 

I hold strongly to the value of courage and fortitude in 
women, said Mrs. Ellacomjbe. “ Courage to meet danger, 
fortitude to bear pain, and absolute truthfulness in all 
things, seem to me as vitally necessary for a noble-minded 
woman as for an honorable man. Society has ruled differ- 
ently; but society is not always infallible. 

‘‘ There is great confusion yet on the virtues proper to 
men and those not binding on women, said Lanfrey. 

“ On some things every one is agreed, but the uncertain 
quantity is still large. 

“ There ought to be none about truth, at all events,'’^ 
said Yetta, who had never told a willful lie since she had 
learned the difference between truth and falsehood. 


190 


PASTON CAREW, 


“ Yefc I myself have heard men say that candor is un- 
feminine,^'’ said Mrs. Ellacombe. “ I remember a charm- 
ing fellow saying to me once, that a woman should hide 
her thoughts as she veiled her face; that falsehood was 
modesty, and no more reprehensible than her short little 
scream when she was frightened. 

‘‘ The shield of the weaker/^ said Lanfrey. 

“ Like slaves/'’ said Yetta, with the prettiest httle dash 
of scorn. 

‘‘ How would you like your wife to be untruthful.^'’'’ 
asked Mrs. Ellacombe, indignantly, with the illogicality of 
a woman by implication accusiug of partisanship one who 
had done nothing more than state a patent fact. 

“ I.^ But I abhor falsehood, and should be awfully cut 
up if my wife were untruthful,'” answered Lanfrey. And 
yet, if i loved her with my whole heart and soul, I should 
forgive her this and everything else,^ ^he added, again look- 
ing at Yetta, who did not look at him. 

“ Thei’e you are wrong, said Mrs. Ellacombe. 
had not^ loved thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor 
more,^ is a finer principle, a nobler feeling, than the love 
which disregards honor and cares only for the person. 
Your love would come under the head of self-indulgence, 
in my mind, not of real love. 

‘‘ You say this — you — the kindest and most charitable 
woman in the world? What inconsistency!” cried Lanfrey, 
warmly. “ Who better than you knows that true love for- 
gives all things! You reverence the ideal, and are patient 
with the 'shortcomings of the real. The spirit may always 
be ready, but the flesh is sometimes weak; and if Love can 
not shelter the backslider,' what else should or can? What 
would become of us if we wer^ not loving and merciful to 
each other? — if we loved only our own ideal and forgave 
no lapses? We should go back to a state of inquisitorial 
cruelty, where all pity and tenderness would be lost. Eor 
myself I say again — to the woman I loved I should forgive 
all. Though my heart should break — ^though I blew. out 
my brains in despair for her failure — I would not disgrace 
her, and I would never tear her out of my heart.” 

He spoke with the vehemence of deep emotion — as if he 
were pleading his own confessed cause, not merely stating 
a hypothetical case, and founding on it the probabilities of 
action. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 197 

Mrs. Ellacombe wished she had let the matter drop be- 
fore it had become personal. It was stirring up a sleeping 
lion — not only a dog — that had better have been left dyi.ng. 
Over Yetta^s fair face came the look of secret joy felt by 
one who is receiving a divine message. Had she had to 
make confession for her own part, she would have said that 
she could not love any man who had proved himself un- 
worthy; but the case was different when it came to Lan- 
frey^’s passionate advocacy — and his doctrine of charity 
swept hers of fidelity to virtue clean out of the field. 
There was something nobler than this stern repudiation of 
wrong-doing. There was that tender mercy toward the 
wrong-doer, which is in fact the central principle of Chris- 
tianity; and when, after a pause, and with even more emo- 
tion than before, the younger son of Lady Jane said; as a 
coda to this theme: “ May we not all be saviors in our 
degree? Who among us is worthy to cast the first stone 
at a sinner? Should we not forgive as we hope' to be for- 
given? And if we forgive, can we cease to love?^- — he had 
made a convert for all time, and Yetta acknowledged in 
him her spiritual master and guide as well as — her pleas- 
antest companion. 

‘‘ All of which means the swallowing wholesale Paston’s 
mother for the sake of his child, thought Mrs. Ellacombe; 
‘‘ and a day of general stramash all round when the storm 
breaks!'^ 

The sw^eet woman, so kind and sympathetic for her own 
part, felt uneasy in that this talk, which meant so much, 
had taken place at her house. For the responsibilities of 
hospitality are as large as its duties and as many as its 
pleasures; and the householder feels accountable for the 
unseen spirits who lodge unbidden therein, and the invisi- 
ble threads which the Fates weave between the four walls. 
This confession of faith, however, so vehemently made, so 
obediently received, seemed to have cleared the air yet more 
and more. In Lanfrey^s' face shone the man^s steadfast 
rejoicing in that he had testified — in Yetta’s, the sweet 
contentment of a woman whose soul had been flooded with 
spiritual light, and in whose mind is that sense of peace 
and beauty which makes what is called its state. She won- 
dered now wLy she had ever been sad or doubtful — why 
she had not always taken the same divine delight in life as 
she did to-day. 


198 


PASTON CAREW^ 


She wondered yet more when Lanfrey^, rising, said to 
Mrs. Ellacombe: 

“Do yon dislike coming into the garden? Will you 
come out? There is no sun, and we shall have more air.'’^ 

They would have less — but that did not signify. 

“No; let us go,^^ said Mrs. Ellacombe. “ Come, child 
•—to Yetta — “ let us go and look at the roses. 

“Your sisters,^ said Lanfrey, with a forced laugh to 
hide his real feeling. 

“ With all their thorns?^ ^ answered Yetta, also laughing. 

“ The rose is itself, and the thorns are its circum- 
stances,'^ was his reply. 

Yetta did not answer. She was wide of his meaning, 
and therefore did not take it up; but she kept thinking to 
herself: “What are my thorns? My mother was not a 
Hindoo; my father is a gentleman — where are my thorns 
of circumstance?" 

The three went slowly over the lawn to the flower garden 
beyond. The electricity surcharging the atmosphere had 
brought out the full color of all the scarlet and yellow 
blossoms, so that they burned like spires of .flame and cups 
of fire; and the heavy air was made heavier still with the 
fragrance that poured in cascades and sprung in fountains 
from the higher plants and the lower growths. They spoke 
of the flowers — their beauty, size, good cultivation, variety; 
and then Lanfrey broke out into a little digression on 
nature and its meaning — that meaning to him, to-day, 
having its highest culmination in Love — Love including 
duty, sincerity, and all good things known to man. The 
words echoed and blended together in Yetta's mind, so that 
they became forever combined and inextricable; Love and 
flowers — Love and the perfume of roses and the gorgeous 
beauty of the great tree-peonies, and the sweet breath, like 
children's sighs, of the low-growing mignonette — Love and 
flowers and fragrance and the glory of life and the divine 
meaning of human worth — with Lanfrey Clinton’s eyes 
looking into hers, and Lanfrey Clinton's voice like the soft 
clear notes of the silver trumpets heralding the advent of 
the high-priest. 

She looked like a flower herself — like the spirit incarnate 
of all that he had said — like a lily humanized, a rose with 
a girl's face, a jasmine flower with a sweet voice for odor, 
and a bending neck for the wliite grace of the slender 


MILLIONAIRE ' AND MISER. 


199 


shaft. Love unseen and undeclared walked between these 
two, holding them by the hand; their own not yet meeting 
to clasp each other in consciousness — only held by Love 
standing between them. It was the tenderest moment of 
the time — the moment of unconfessed desires, of unformed 
hopes, sweet, peaceful, unconsciously expectant. 

Bending over the rose-bush, gathering modest little sprays 
of jasmine and all sweet-scented blossoms, Yetta felt as if 
she were walking in an enchanted land, where nothing was 
real, save feeling. Lanfrey^s voice was her music; Lan- 
frey^'s eyes were her loadstars; and Mrs. Ellacombe was as 
some kindly genius who had made this glory possible. 

She was still holding her flowers in her hand when Lan- 
frey drew a little closer to her. 

“Will you give me one?^^ he said. 

It was scarcely as if he had asked her for a flower only; 
and she herself felt that if she should give him one she 
would give him more. 

“ With so many about, to ask me for mine?^^ she said, 
making a tremendous effort over herself, and trying to 
speak with a playfulness she was far from feeling. 

“ Yes,^^ he answered, in a low voice. “ I want one from 
you.-’^ 

“ Which she asked. 

“ Give me Corisande^s gift,"*^ he answered. 

“ A rose?^-' she asked again, not remembering the ap- 
plication. 

“ Yes, a rose!” he answered. 

She chose one of the best she had, and gave it to him. 
He carried it to liis lips. 

“And with it all that Corisande gave?” he said, with 
meaning. 

Then she remembered, and turned away in desperate 
trouble, silent, bashful, afraid, overwhelmed, and angry 
with herself that she had been so heedless and unsuspecting. 

All this time Mrs. Ellacombe was at some distance, talk- 
ing to the gardener. 

“ I want you to tell me something,” said Lanfrey, sud- 
denly, and apropos of nothing. “Would you brave the 
world and all men for the one you loved?” 

“I do not know,” she answered, in a faltering voice. 
“ I have never thought of it.” 

“ But you know if you could love to the death — love to 


200 PASTON CAKEW, 

the sacrifice of all but that one?’^ he repeated, earnestly, 
urgently. 

‘ How should I?’"’ she returned, trembling. 

“Tell me that you would be true, no matter what the 
obstacles, if you once loved the man who loved you,^'’ he 
repeated. 

Her soft eyes drooped; the blush beneath her skin 
mounted higher and higher; she would have been as stupid 
as a block had she not known and understood the applica- 
tion; she thought that^ — yes, indeed, she could be true for 
all time, and no matter what the obstacles between them, 
to such a man as Lanfrey Clinton, if he loved her and asked 
her! Then suddenly the maidenly pride that had been al- 
most overpowered reasserted itself, and she set herself free 
of that yielding weakness as if it had been the conquerable 
forerunner of shame or death. 

“ How can I promise what does not exist? she said, 
quietly. “ I must wait till I know. 

So far she was true. If it had been with her, as with 
him, love at first sight, and the recognition of mutual fit- 
ness before knowledge had consecrated the bond, it was. not 
yet with her, as with him, self-confession, self -acknowledg- 
ment, That strange weakness which had just passed over 
her left on her a sense of shame and spiritual danger she 
could not understand. She felt somehow that she liad 
failed her highest self, and that she must punish herself 
vigorously. 

“ Shall I give you back your rose?’^ said Lanfrey, stung 
to a lover’s foolish pique. 

She looked at him with feigned indifference and some 
real surprise. 

“ I will take it, if you wish, but I did not ask for it,” 
she said. “ Why should I? I have others.” 

“ Then I will keep it,” was liis answer, as he again kissed 
the flower and put it inside his vest. 

At this moment Mrs. Ell acorn be came up to them, 
having flnished her discussion with the gardener. The 
little play was ended, the currain came down, and the un- 
seen Love who had walked between them, holding a hand 
of each, crept behind the rose-bush hiding his face in his 
wings. But one thing was clear now to Lanfrey: he loved 
Yetta Carew, and the feud between their houses notwith- 
standing — Maurice in his pretensions, his mother in her 


MILLIOKAIRE AND MISER. 


201 


advocacy, his father in his denial — ^he would conquer all 
and make her his wife. The gods might oppose — he would 
carry his own to the end; and as the Titans fought and 
Jacob wrestled, so would he, and with success. This is 
what all lovers think in the first fever of their love, and 
how many fulfill? — the resolve made in thedawnj how often 
do we exult in its performance in the evening? 

Turning back toward the house they met Grant coming 
across the lawn to join them. 

“ What a day!’’^ he said in his mournful way when he 
came up to them. 

“ Yes, is it not splendid?^^ said Lanfrey; and, “ How 
beautiful it is!^' echoed Yetta. 

Grant looked at them with the indulgence of a philosopher 
for fools. 

‘‘ You find it so?^^ he said. ‘‘ To me it is detestable. 
These days when thunder is in the air are not livable 

“ Yes,^^ said Lanfrey, recollecting himself, “ it is rather 
close, certainly.'^ 

‘‘We shall have a storm before night,' said Grant. 

“ W^hich will clear the air,^^ said his wife. 

“ After having done no end of damage,'^ was'his reply. 

“And then to-morrow will be perfect, said Lanfrey, 
looking at Yetta. There is always that to-morrowT^ 

“ Which some of us may not live to see,^^ said the pessi- 
mist. “We can only count on the present/’ 

“ All the same we s6w for the future, said Lanfrey. 

“ For the fungus and the fly,^^ Grant returned. 

“ For the bread and fruit by which nations are fed and 
made glad,'’^ laughed the other. 

“ Ah, I see you still hope,^^ said Grant Ellacombe, with 
profound pity in his voice and manner. 

“Yes, I hope, and am sure,^^ said Lanfrey; and again 
he looked at Yetta, and this time a sudden flush of joy 
came into his eyes and a strangely happy smile^bout his 
mouth. 

“ Meanwhile the storm is brewing, and will break before 
long,^^ said Grant; “ and if you will take my advice. Miss 
Yetta, you will put yourself under the shelter of your own 
home as soon as you can. ” 


202 


PASTON CAREW. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

IN THE HANDS OP THE SKILLPUL. 

Planchette, an obedient servant to Octavia Gaysworthy, 
was recalcitraot and 'disappointing to Paston Carew. He 
used to sit for hours on hours, and far into the night, his 
lean brown hands laid on this heart-shaped messengef from 
the unseen world — this wheeled and wooden Iris, carrying 
messages by the point of a lead-pencil from the spirits to 
juaa — but he could get nothing save unintelligible scratches, 
which ran round and round and along and across the paper 
in a mindless net-work of meaningless confusion. Some- 
times, by a great deal of touching up and joining together 
unconnected lines, he forced his faith so far as to make a 
tracing of a human face after the pattern of a Xew Zealand 
idol; sometimes the tracing came to be a composite kind of 
beast, half snake, half horse, which would have dismayed 
him as an evil omen, had he not felt that he had made of 
his own accord what had not been fairly and freely given. 
Nothing had as yet brought conviction, still less light; 
and Planchette remained indocile, and gave results that had 
no meaning, view them as he would. 

Yet how he longed for some sign, some word, some proof 
substantiating Hope! With the intellectual assent rather 
than conviction of a man who has been brought up in the 
orthodox faith, and who has never looked into its proofs, 
nor laid bare its foundations, Paston had the temperament 
of a skeptic. He craved for verification of those things 
that he was self-assured he believed, and accepted every- 
thing he heard that flattered his desire for direct communi- 
cation. What he could not understand, that he pressed into 
the service of faith as evidence; and he was like a man 
who, fearing to see the light, holds up colored screens, with 
which he is only half content. He thrust from him the 
doctrine of unconscious cerebration as untenable and unin- 
telligible, but the meandering of the thoughts unbidden, 
open-eyed dreaming in the daylight, might well be direct 
spiritual revelation. Cards, more especially his own dirty 
little tarots, were favorite vehicles for the unseen to manipu- 
late^ omens of all kinds were sent with intent; dreams had 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


303 


their interpretative significance; presentiments, signs yet 
more subtle and impalpable, were spiritually conveyed; and 
the whole rank and file of embassadors from, the spiritual 
world — ghosts, specters, wraiths, and mediums, among the 
rest — were as fully accredited as any of those in the body, 
flourishing about in bag-wigs and court dress at St. 
Jameses. But with all this effervescence of superstition his 
brain was the brain of a skeptic, and the one was the di- 
rect consequence of the other. 

Blanchette had been Octavia^s loon. She had offeredjio 
lend him this sensitive little wooden Iris with an air of false 
conviction, and he had accepted the offer with a sneer that 
was no more true than her earnestness had been. 

‘‘ It will be such a comfort to 5"ou,'’^ she had said. ‘‘ Your 
friends in the spirit world will communicate with you, and 
tell you what you ought to do; and then you will be both 
led, aright, and have no responsibility.^^ 

To which his answer had been : ‘ ‘ A new terror among 
the many added to death? Even the grave not stVong 
enough to sever the sordid bond?^^ 

But he had taken the slippery, easily worked little ma- 
chine, for all his sneer, and had sat over it for hours at a 
time, trying for an intelligible message, which never 
came. He had made only a net-work of scratches, out of 
which ingenuity itself coiild construct no coherent words 
nor possible form without a great outlay of imaginative 
skill. 

“ Well, what have you got from Blanchette asked Oc- 
tavia one day, when she and her mother called at Mock- 
Beggar, as they so often did. “ Have you had any new 
messages:’"’ 

‘‘ None,^’ said Baston. 

But you have made something?’"’ she returned. 

A few absurd scratches. As I had the machine, I 
thought I would use it. One values one’s own tests; but I 
have got nothing of any value. ” 

He spoke with admirable indifference, a little colored 
with disdain. 

Everything is of importance,” said Octavia, seriously. 
“ You see, the spirits can not do all things perfectly at 
once. We have to learn their ways, as we have to learn a 
new language or a new accomplishment. You will become 


204 


PASTON CAKEW, 


stronger as you go on, and then you will get all sorts of 
things you will like. I wish you would show me what you 
have done. 

“I have done nothing in any way intelligible/^ he re- 
peated, stiffly. 

“ Perhaps not to you,’^ she insisted; ‘‘ but I might make 
something of it. You see, I am accustomed to the funny 
way the spirits begin with new people. And I am an inter- 
preting medium as well as other things. I wish you would 
let me see what you have done. I know I could explain it 
all to you, and I would be your chief baker, or J oseph, or 
whoever it was that knew about the lean Idne.'’^ 

“ I have done nothing, he said again. They are only 
scratches. 

‘‘Well, that is just what they should be in the begin- 
ning!^^ she repeated. “ What else would you have? Now 
just get them, like a dear man, and Pll tell you all about 
them. And we are losing time; mamma and that darling 
will be.back presently, and you donT want them to see.^^ 
Eeluctantly, not much affecting Miss Gaysworthy, and 
holding her as but an unsatisfactory kind of envoy, but 
willing to have even her guidance through the maze rather 
than none at all, Paston went into his study for the sheets 
of paper he had locked away in his writing-table drawer as 
carefully as he locked away his bank-notes, and brought 
them back to the adept waiting to decipher their hiero- 
glyphics. 

Mrs. Gaysworthy and Yetta were in the garden. Mrs. 
Gaysworthy always did go into the garden with Yetta when 
they called at Mock-Beggar. She professed herself so deeply 
interested in flowers, and maintained that the flowers here 
those poor starved, stunted plants and blooms, spoiled 
for want of sufficient nourishment, like children kept just 
above the line of abi?olute starvation— were the most inter- 
esting of all in Beaton Brows. Besides, this division of 
forces strengthened each. She left Octavia to flsh for the 
master of this beautiful place by means of Blanchette’s 
messages, while she attacked him through his daughter. 
The one method was direct, the other incidental; and sus- 
picious men are often best caught by the latter. Yetta would 
be a more powerful advocate, too, than any personal desire 
— at least, so she judged, reading him by the light of her 
extensive knowledge of men — and she would rather the girl 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


205 


approved the mother than that Paston pro230secl for the 
wife. 

“ Why, Mr. Carew, these are just perfect!’^ said Octavia, 
in high glee, when he gave her the papers and she had stud- 
ied them for awhile. ‘‘ See how you have progressed! It 
is marvelous! Look here — at the beginning the spirits could 
not speak to you at all. There are just the scratches and 
circles and runnings about they always make — like so many 
babies who can not write. And now I can make out all 
sorts of things in this last paper. Look! here is an angel/^ 
she went on to say, with a few rapid touches converting a 
spider^s web kind of scrawl into a thing that looked like a 
caterpillar with a couple of wedge-shaped appendages; 

and here is a demon, she added, in the same way joining 
and touching up another set of scratches into the caricature 
of a conventionalized demon with horns and a tail. ‘‘ And 
the angel is chasing away the demon — there with that dark 
splotch. 8o that is all right, and you are in good hands 
and being taken care of. The spirits wanted toj^ell you 
that. And I can read a fe\7 words to 3,^^ she went on to 
say, her pencil still busy. “ See, this is evidently ‘ friend/ 
and this is ‘ white,' and look! here is ‘ soul,'' and here is 
‘ trust." Now fetch Planchette, and we will try for a mes- 
sage. I am sure the spirits want to speak to you."" 

“ It would be impolite to refuse you,"" said Paston, mask- 
ing his real feeling with a smile more ghastly than he knew; 
and when he had again gone back to his room for the ma- 
chine, Octavia hid her face in her handkerchief, and said 
to herself, while she laughed beneath her breath, “If I do 
not make that ola goose do as I like, it will be odder than 
Planchette herself!"" 

No laughter, however, was to be seen in her face when 
Paston came back with his heart-shaped wooden Iris. She 
was, for her, grave and quiet, when she sat by a small 
round table, he on the other side facing her and Planchette 
between them, and their four hands laid lightly on the sen- 
sitive little plank. Presently it began to move, as if writ- 
ing, and it moved with extreme rapidity, and soon came to 
the end of the paper. 

“ Now let us see what they have said!’" cried Octavia, 
taking up the sheet, and she read aloud. 

It was a long exhortation to general godliness of living 
and belief in the spirits. It was eminently a safe message. 


206 


PASTON CAKEW, 


but not specially convincing to one seeking to know, and it 
was signed only in initials, ‘‘ M. P. But in smaller 

writing at the end was a coda, which gave a certain sig- 
nificance to the whole: “ Dear son, you may trust your 
friend, White Soul/^ 

“ Why, that’s me!” cried Octavia, with girlish glee. She 
took the little machine and kissed it. ‘‘ Dear Planchette, 
thank you! thank yon, dear spirits, so much! That’s my 
name in the spirit world,” she went on to say, all in a tu- 
mult and turmoil of excitement. ‘‘ They have christened 
me White Soul. And of course that was what they were 
wanting to say to you on the paper. Don’t you see? I 
made out ‘ trust,’ and ^ friend,’ and ‘ white,’ and ‘ soul;’ 
but you were not strong enough yet, so they could not 
speak. And so you may trust me, Mr. Carew. I am a 
silly little thing, I know, but I hope I am a good girl, and 
honest and above-board. And you see it is your father and 
mother who have come to you: M. P. 0. Maurice and 
Patty Clinton. Here! let us' try again.” 

“ Is there no word from her!” half sighed Paston. 

He did not care for his father and mother. He was 
wanting some assurance that the dead wife whom he had 
loved so fondly was conscious of his being and waiting for 
his coming. Octavia divined his thoughts, and understood 
his broken sentence. But — what in the name of fortune 
was that dead wife’s Christian name?” 

Planchette wrote rapidly again. This time it was a dis- 
tinct message from the mother, and signed in full “ Patty,” 
and stating how that she and the father and the sweet 
young wife — ‘‘my daughter in the spirit world as she 
would have been on earth,” all watched over Paston and 
his daughter, and occupied themselves in making things as 
safe and pleasant as they had the power to do — with future 
advantageous contingencies in the world beyond. For just 
one brief moment Paston was overcome; then his habitual 
caution reasserted itself. 

“ Give me some proof — something that can not be de- 
nied — that I only know. This must be easy,” he said, 
with crisped lips. 

“ I wonder what they will say?” said Octavia. 

“ Remember that night in June!” wrote Planchette. 

“ What does that mean?” asked Octavia, speaking care- 
lessly, but with a sharp look, watching the inscrutable face. 


MILLIONATfeE AKD MISER. ' '^Ot 


‘‘ That tells me nothing/^ he replied with well-acted in- 
difference. “ What night in June? What does it mean?' ^ 
But the sharp eyes watching so closely saw an almost im- 
perceptible little contraction o-f the lips — and how on the 
dark and long forehead small drops of clammy dew started 
from the skin. 

Joy and sorrow/ wrote Blanchette. 


A sliiver passed over his usually impassive frame; but, 
moved as he was, his natural suspicion carried it over his 
superstition. 

^ Tell me more explicitly,’^ he said, in a voice he did his 
best in vain to master. ' It was deep and husky and slightly 
faltered, and Octavia saw that the right track had been 
struck. Yetta’s birthday was in June, and the world at 
Beaton Brows — which knew so little, knew at least so much 
— that her mother had died in giving her birth. 

‘‘Joy and sorrow — life and death,” wrote the little ma- 
chine. 


“ Tell me more— tell me that one thing — repeat that one 
word which you and I only know,” said Paston. 

The machine gave a kind of spasmodic jump. 

“ Good-bye,” it wrote rapidly. “We are tired.” 


Then it stopped still and remained fixed; when Paston 
•tried to push it lightly, he did not stir it from its place. 

“It is of no use sitting longer,” said Octavia, rising. 
“No more can be got, if we were to stay here for an hour. 
They have gone. They are very arbitrary and very tire- 
some, and just as you are on the point of something really 
interesting, they often go like this. It is too bad, but we 
can not help it. They get cross if we press them. ” 

“ It seems odd to me that you should speak of these — 
Powers — so disrespectfully, and use your own force so 
lightly,” said Paston, slowly and severely. 

“ Oh! you make a great mistake to go at it too seriously,” 
said Octavia. “They don’t like it. Besides/you have 
sometimes to scold them — just as I scold Sprite. You see, 
they are not so very far superior to ourselves. They are in 
the other world certainly, but they are no better than they 
were when they were down here. And sometimes they are 
a great deal worse. And then they tell such stories! A 
lot of wicked, mischievous little imps get about, and say all 
sorts of naughty lies. And then people believe that the 


S08 


PASTOF CAEEW, 


poor dear medium is to blame. It is the spirits them- 
selves.^^ 

That is an unsatisfactory state of things for the me- 
dium/^ said Paston, dryly. 

“ Yes; isn’t it? But it can not be helped,” returned 
Octavia, philosophically submissive to the inevitable. “ But 
you’ll do better now with Planchette, just see if you do 
not,” she said, suddenly breaking fresh ground. “It is 
charged now, like an electric machine^, and 'you do much 
better after a strong medium has used it. You will get 
more intelligible writing. You did very well as it was — 
you got trust, and friend, and white, and soul, all distinct 
enough to one who is accustomed to these things; and the 
message showed what it all meant. But now you’ll get a 
better class of thing. I am sure of it!” 

“ My curiosity is nearly satisfied,” said Paston, stiffly. 
He did not wish Octavia to know' all. 

“ My goodness!” she ejaculated. “How funny! lam 
never satisfied! You see, there is so much to learn, isn’t 
there? If we could only get them to fell us, how jolly it 
would be!” 

“ If!” echoed Paston, thinking what treasm’es indeed 
could be unveiled by those wdio had leaped the gulf and 
learned the Great Secret — who knew what made that thing 
we call Life, and what was in the Change we speak of as 
Death — those states . to wdiich vve gave names, understand- 
ing nodiing of their meaning. Oh, for some message from 
the dead to give the truth to the living! some sign, some 
proof that no man could deny, to assure us of the contin- 
uance of identity — the immortality of love! 

The yearning passion that swept across the lean hard 
face — as a phosphorescent wave breaking across a stagnant 
pool — startled Octavia, and for the moment both fright- 
ened and abashed her. She felt sorry that she had carried 
things so far, and terrified lest her cheat should ever be dis- 
covered. The thing she had undertaken as a harmless kind 
of aid to her own private ends might prove in the end like 
the rod which became a serpent and stung the hand of him 
who held it; and the last state of what was essentially a 
plant might be much worse than the first. Nevertheless, 
she knew that the one necessary lesson of evil which wishes 
to succeed is— go on boldly to the end, and trust to the 
chapter of accidents not to be discovered midway. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 209 

‘‘ Let US go and find mam then said Octavia; ‘‘ she 
has run away with that darling fong enough. And .we shall 
get no more messages to-day, at all events. 

' ‘ At your pleasure in a moment, ” said Paston, coldly. 

He had first to take back Planchette and those scrawled 
and unintelligible papers to his study, where he kept them, 
as he kept his money and Yetta^’s jew^els. 

Octavia half laughed and half frowned wh6n he left the 
room. 

“ What an old wretch he is!^^ she said to herself. “ He 
has no more life in him than a mummy. Ungrateful old 
horror! If I could, would I not make him pay for all this! 
Well, perhaps I. shall some day. He seems to have taken' 
the bait, and in spiritualism and Planchette ce n^est que le 
2 )remier pas que coiUe!” 

Meanwhile she walked through the open windown on to 
the lawn, and strolled across, alone, to the seat under the 
cedar- tree, where she knew that Paston could see her, and 
where she put herself into the most becoming attitude she 
could assume. She might as well have posed before a 
marble statue. Paston did not even know the color of the 
gown she wore, nor notice whether the fringe on her fore- 
head was shorter or longer than usual. To him she was 
now nothing but a medium of communication — a link be- 
tween the seen and the unseen; and her personality counted 
for no more than that of a pencil or a pen. He certainly 
somewhat wondered that she should have that power. A 
frivolous, ignorant, light-minded giglet, she was as strange 
as Iris or Planchette itself. But the ways of the unseen 
powers are inscrutable, and the consecration of Octavia 
Gaysworthy was no more marvelous than that of certain 
others — the Witch of Endor among the number. 

The husband-hunter sat there waiting for her companion 
to accompany her through the garden to the houses, 
whence she heard her mother’s voice talking to the head- 
gardener, from whom she was asking seeds and cuttings. 
But she waited in vain. Paston was poring over the mes- 
sages given by the spirits of his father and mother through 
Octavia’s agency, and doing his best to make himself see 
some likeness in the writing to that of either the one or the 
other. If to either, it was to his mother’s, for Patty’s 
hand had been that spidery, peaked, indeterminate kind of 


210 


PASTOISr CAEEW, 


thing which is rather typical than individual; and Octa-via 
Gayswcndhy’s, which he dft not know, was like it. ' 

“ If — if it should be true!^^ he said, half aloud. ‘‘ If she 
is waiting for me thcTe ! If she knows all my love and all 
my constancy to her memory 

Ah, that ‘‘ if!^^ How those two letters hold the key of 
every secret and every doubt! How they are the unseen 
hinges on which turns the great door that now divides the 
truth from falsehood! If it should be true! Nothing 
could make it sure but his own experience. Octavia Gays- 
worthy could deceive him, but he could not deceive himself. 
So he sat and pored over those messages, seeking ever to go 
deeper into the heart of their meaning, while the husband- 
hunter, so craftily stalking him, sat beneath the cedar- tree, 
conscious and expectant, and her mother caressed Yetta, 
and gave her good counsel, flattered the gardener, and got 
him to promise seeds and cuttings for her own use. 

‘‘ I think your father has vanished up the chimney!^' 
laughed Qctavia, when the two came back to the lawn — the 
mother thinldng that she had given her daughter time 
enough for the present. 

Where is he:^^ asked Y^'etta. 

“ What have you done with him, Babs?^^ laughed Mrs. 
Gays worthy. 

“1 am sure I don^t know,^^ she replied, laughing too. 

He left me to go into his own room about some papers, 
and I have not seen him since. 

‘‘ Perhaps he found some business waiting for him,^'’ said 
Yetta, gently. He often has a great deal to do.’^ 

Can not you call him?^^ suggested Babs. “ You know 
we must go directly, and it looks so rude to run away with- 
out wishing him good-bye. 

“ I never disturb him when he is in his own room,^^ said 
Yetta, reluctant to deny her guests, but at once firm and 
timid toward her father. 

And with this the two ladies had to be content. And 
as Paston showed no sign of reappearance, after as long a 
delay as was practicable, they had to leave, Octavia con- 
scious that she had not advanced her affairs in proportion 
to the trouble she had taken with her morning’s work. 

“ He is an old horror!” she repeated to her mother, in 
the confidence of their little pony-chaise, which she drove 
at a smarter pace, and with more use of the whip than the 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


211 


fat old white barrel liked; and after he had such lovely 
messages from his father and mother! He might have been 
more grateful to the one who got them for him!^^ 

‘‘ Were you in form, Babs?"^ asked Mrs. Gaysworthy, 
with the smiles she generally put on when she spoke of her 
daughter's mediumship. 

^ “ Splendid!"^ returned Babs. “That old wretch Mau- 
rice and the mother came, and gave a very nice little mes- 
sage. 

“And expressed contrition?^" asked Mrs. Gaysworthy, 
demurely. 

“No; they might, and ought... Perhaps they will another 
time,"" answered Octavia. 

“ It would be becoming and right if they did,"" said the 
mother. “ It would comfort poor Mr. Carew too, and be 
a help to morality all round. This was all?"" 

“ All for to-day,"" said Octavia. “ The wife was there, 
but didii"t speak. She wasn"t quite strong enough to com- 
municate, I suppose. She will get better by and by."" 

“ Without doubt,"" said the mother, as demurely as be- 
fore. “ I imagine it is difficult for a spirit to commuiiicate 
with a medium who knows nothing whatever of the life 
history, not even the name by which it was called when on 
earth."" 

“ Very,"" said Babs, quite simply. “ A little knowledge 
puts the medium at her ease, and makes all things run bet- 
ter. It is like knowing a language well — you can express 
your ideas all the better, and are not hampered. "" 

“ I quite understand that, "" said the mother, always in 
the same dry, demure way. “ In fact, I do not see how 
you can manage anything, Babs, without some kind of pre- 
vious knowledge, and certainly Maurice and that vile 
woman were safer cards to play than this unknown and 
anonymous wife. "" 

“ Ah, you darling!"" said Babs, with the sweetest kind 
of pity for cherubic ignorance — ignorance which took noth- 
ing from the purity of the cherub, but simply prevented 
the fuller and loftier fruition of knowledge — the difference, 
say, between the cherubim and the seraphim. “ If only you 
could be brought to believe heartily, how much happier you 
would be-!"" 

“ Then there would be two of a trade, Babs,"" said Mrs, 


212 


PASTON CAREW, 


Gaysworthy, with a laugh; and they never agree, you 
know/^ 

“Perhaps we are two of a trade in another way/^ 
laughed back Octavia, with a flush that struck up through 
her rouge. 

And her mother did not press for the hidden meaning of 
this dark saying. 

That night Paston tried Planchette again. In the dim 
light of his one candle, while the night-jar screamed and 
the owls hooted, he sat by the table like a soul iip agony 
striving for that one drop of water which should ease his 
pain. Voiceless prayers filled his heart, and the infinite 
longing of love possessed him. The 2:)lace seemed crowded 
with unseen influences, and it was as if he heard the sighs 
of the separated, and felt the breath of the beloved lightly 
lying on his face. In the dim distances radiant eyes, im- 
palpable but present, seemed to look at him; and the shad- 
ows fell as if they were tresses of dusky hair. He almost 
heard the faint passing of spiritual beings, and the low 
whisperings of spiritual voices. He was no longer alone. 
The air was alive, and space was peopled; and the souls of 
those he had lost and loved had come back from the grave 
to meet him. A shiver ran through him, and his hands 
shook as they pressed the little instrument with the yearning 
feeling of one wishing to impart life into dead matter. 
Suddenly it moved. No longer erratic, unintelligent, out 
of bounds, it went under his own hand rapidly, and as if 
with intention, till it came to the edge of the paper, and 
was stopped by the rougher material of the cloth. Then 
Paston took up the paper, and there, scrawled in tremulous, 
misshapen letters, were the words, “We are with you.'’’ 

Here there was no mistake, no deception. “We are with 
you ” was written by his own hand, his Qwn mediumship; 
and the doubts he might have had of Octavia Gaysworthy 
were set at rest by the success of his own experiment. 

He shook as if in an ague fit, and put his hands again on 
the instrument. 

“ Who are you?” he said, in a low whisper. His voice 
would have terrified himself had he heard it. “ Give me 
some sign. Tell me, who is it?” 

planchette did not move. His doubt paralyzed his ac- 
tion. He longed for one answer, he feared the other; and 
in the stagnation caused by these two opposing forces noth- 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


213 


ing could be done. After a time the little machine began 
to move, in a strangely hesitating, confused contradictory 
way. At last, amid a tangle of scrawls and scratches, came 
two words clearly enough: “ Your mother. The idea cast 
into the mind of Paston by Octavia^s message dominated 
the greater desire, and the mechanical action of uncon- 
scious cerebration completed the miracle. 

His mother, then, was dead. So he had believed, and, 
truth to say, had hoped. Her existence would have been 
an embarrassment, and he had enough on his hands as 
things were. But he was not ^latisfied with this answei to 
his prayer. It was not his mother with whom he sought to 
hold spiritual converse, nor yet his father. It was with the 
one sole love of his life — his beautiful fairy wife. Aline. It 
was from her he hoped to get the spiritual balm and com- 
fort of loving words, to- feel that though dead, she was not 
lost — though out of the range of his bodily vision, she was 
within that of his higher perception. And this again was 
additional proof to him of the genuineness of the phenom- 
enon. Had he written of his own will, he would have 
written Aline; as he wrote under the influence of others, he 
wrote as they directed, and as the truth was. But all the 
time he knew that Aline was there, and that one day she 
would be able to manifest herself. It was for the future — 
always that future which is to redress the balance) and 
make up for the short-comings of the present— and mean- 
while he must content himself with what he could get, and 
satisfy his longing with the lower till he could obtain the 
higher. 

This much at least was true; death was change, not an- 
nihilation, nor yet the ‘‘ solution of continuity in affec- 
tion and earthly interests. The material accidents of pater- 
nity and marriage, due to temporary and superficial causes, 
bound the released unsexual soul for all eternity: and the 
heaven which lies beyond his grave is Ijpt a transcript and 
a continuance of the mortal l2e which is its beginning. 


214 


PA8T0N CAKEW, 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

FRIENDLESS AND FALLEN. 

Shivering in a cold, damp, dreary den, called by the 
landlady the back kitchen, but more like a dungeon in one 
of the cruel old strongholds of Crusading times than a 
habitable room of modern construction, all that had once 
been buxom and luxurious Patty Carew fought feebly for 
life against old age and destitution. She had had her day; 
and now the night was upon her. She had poured without 
stint the amassed treasures of her life into the limber, well- 
shaped hands stretched out to receive them ; and she had 
given the brisk young teacher of languages a love she had 
never felt for her indolent and easy-going master, nor yet 
for her clever and silently reproachful son. She had even 
forsworn her habitual caution, and made him the keeper 
of her fortunes, the arbiter of her destiny. She had kept 
back nothing; and the passion of this mature Cleopatra for 
her unaccredited Anthony was a tragedy to those who 
understood what they saw, yet to herself it was a new well- 
spring of youth and such happiness as she had never 
known, nor even suffered herself to dream of. 

He on his side played his sorry part to perfection. He 
robbed her, laughed at her, spent her money among painted 
houris whose summers had not ripened them to the point 
of decay, and the frost of whose winters had only braced, 
not bitten them; but he was always complaisant, good- 
humored, exuberant when at home; and if liis business car- 
ried him abroad more often than his love would have had 
him go, it was always honorable business that gave him in- 
finite kudos among* well-conditioned folk, for all that the 
material profit accruing was at the. vanishing-point. And 
though he was wont to return home in a strangely ex- 
hausted state — his work being of a killing kind — but then 
remember the honor of it! as he used to remind her when 
she remonstrated out of love, not suspicion — he was never 
aught but a caressing and courteous companion to his 
“ cliere petite Niniche,^^ as he called her, his buxom, well- 
preserved quinquagenarian wife, whom he affected to treat 


MILLIOKAIKE AND MISEK. 


215 


as a kind of fairy, though she was a good two inches taller 
than he, and weighed a full third more by tl^e weighing- 
chair on the South Kensington station. 

This life went on for some years; and the golden days of 
her Indian summers seemed to Patty Carew as if they 
would end only with her life. She had but one regret — 
they had come a little late;--but after fifty an Indian sum- 
mer is better than none at ail, and a brisk young teacher of 
languages, without a stake or a rootlet, was mor'e to her 
taste than that heavy, lethargic, indolent old Maurice, with 
a name as long as history, and the finest estate in the 
county. He had never really loved her. She had soon 
made the truth clear to herself. He had taken her more 
because she was like another woman than because she was 
herself; and having taken her, he had kept her because it 
would have been a trouble to have exchanged her. But 
Victor — dear Victor — loved her; and she loved him; ah, 
merciful Heaven, how much! - Also it was pleg-sant to her 
to regulate herself with society, and to have her mar- 
riage lines in her hand when death should carry her from 
this world to the next. She had a superstitious, kind of 
notion that she would do better in a future state if she had 
been recognized by the social law in this, and that the 
power of Doctor’s Commons extended beyond the office of 
the Registrar-General. 

So the time flew on golden wings and ip deceitful bliss, 
and a false fair smiling joy, behind whose radiant mask hid 
sorrow and a lie, stood beside the gate of that flowery land, 
which was no more real than the Indian maza, or the spells 
cast behind him by the hunted rabbit of the Algonquins. 
All, however, was peace, all was sunshine and clear content, 
when one day there was brought to Mme. Richard a mus- 
tard-colored envelope, wherein was written the Word of 
Might by which the whole enchantment was dispelled. 
Her husband had deserted her, and she was once , more 
alone. And more than this — she was penniless. He had 
eaten up to the last available farthing, keeping only enough 
for his own immediate exigencies. And the future oven 
wherein his* cliere petite Kiniche was to find her rneager 
crusts neither troubled his conscience nor ranked in any 
way as his affair. In the accounts between them, he felt 
that they were quits. 

Que diabUy he said, both to himself and the painted 


216 


PASTON" CAEEW, 


houri who had agreed to share his slipper}^ fortunes, what 
more could an old woman want: He had given her his 
youth, his name, his unruffled amiability, and all her hap- 
piness — and she had given him her money. It was qxiid 
pro quo, and of the two she had come the best olf. In any 
case, it was over now. The omelet had been made and 
eaten, who was going to be fool enough to regret the 
broken eggs? 

So he reasoned, his liniber fingers playing airily as he 
talked and ticked dfi the items at the joints, and the two 
passed over the blue waters to the hospitable West, where 
they graduated in those schools of vice and crime which 
end at last in the solitary cell and warders in the corridor. 

For a moment Patty bent under the blow; then the in- 
domitable courage, the indexible will she had inherited 
from her father came to her aid, and she set her face to 
the hideous task of finding out how things really stood, and 
making the best of what she could not mend. She found 
out that she was absolutely ruined, and that she must work 
if she wished to live, and objected to starve. . So far this 
was useful to her. It prevented the brooding which leads 
from despair to lethargy. She could not indulge herself in 
the luxury of sorrow. She had to put out her energies to 
obtain the gross material things of life, and to do rather 
than think. She found a situation as housekeeper in a 
tradesmans family, where her pseudo-gentility gained her 
consideration, doubled with suspicion; but as her conduct 
was at the first exemplary, her rather lame story was taken 
as if set on rwo straight legs; and all would have gone 
well to the end had not the gin-bottle lurched in between. 

How she lived at all in these later times was a mystery 
even to herself. Were not the poor so good to the poor, 
there would be many a death from starvation which now is 
averted by another voluntarily sharing that ragged fringe 
of famine; and so it was with this poor old wreck of the 
former handsome, well-to-do creature — so luxuriously held 
by her entertainer. Somehow, among them all — thieves, 
and more than soiled, foully plucked and dirty birds of 
every description — Mme. Richard was not left co starve, 
and was charitably helped to drink; and in the midst of ner 
degradation and theirs they never forgot that she was a 
real lady, who, if she had her rights, would now be driving 
in her own carriage, with a coronet on her head. Fancy 


MILLION^AIRE MISER. 217 

does as well as fact, all the world over; aM more than one 
kind of shadow takes the semblance. of a substance. 

Patty knew nothing of her son. In the first young days 
of her delusive happiness with the adventurer of whom she 
made her hero she had shaken herself free of him. She had 
the miser’s fear lest he should come and see her wealth, 
and trouble her possessions. Her thirty-year-old -son would 
hare accused her of those fifty odd years which she had 
boiled down to forty, and she scarcely desired to present 
him to a father-in-law who was five years his junior. Hence 
all communication between them came abruptly to a close, 
and she had lost sight of him since her marriage, as he of 
her. She knew nothing of his fortunes, nor of his return 
to Beaton Brows, nor yet whether he was rich or poor, nor 
even whether he was alive or dead. Now she would have 
been glad to recover the lost trace. Though no law could 
compel a son to support his unmarried mother, she had a 
faint kind of trust in natural instinct, and a far greater in 
the fear of exposure. She felt very sure that Paston had 
not gone about the world with his legal designation pinned 
to his breast; and she felt also very sure that outside such 
phenomenal ill-luck as would grind any man to powder, he 
would be well off, and with enough and to spare for her. 
But how to find him? She thought of this night and day 
when she was sober, and she raved of it when she was 
drunk. * 

The whole ragged crew of thieves and dirty birds by 
which she was surrounded knew her son’s name and 
hypothetical riches as well as they knew their own; and 
their imaginations warmed over the idea of a possible, gen- 
eral sharing and rare riot over an impartial and exhaustive 
loot. But it was a Barmecide’s feast all round, and the 
moment of '"la cures'' never came. 

Then Patty wrote? to Jim Sherwood — ^telling him so much 
of her life as she cared should be known, and asking news 
of the neighborhood. Though Jim had been fathoms deep 
below her in the olden times, and though, to do her justice, 
she had been feminine loyalty in person to her phlegmatic, 
master, she had seen clearly enough the love wdiich had 
burned in the gamekeeper’s heart like a fire covered down 
by ashes, the dull and dreary light of which had rather 
darkened than enlightened his life. Women see these 
things as quickly as birds see the berries on the bushes, or 


21S 


PASTON CAREW. 


as bees find the^boney in the flowers;- and Patty had been 
perfectly aware of what she had never acknowledged by 
look nor sign. Hence it was that she elected now to write 
to Jim, her ancient servant and humble admirer, hoping to 
find some way of utilizing past emotions — ^forced by hunger 
to abandon pride. 

All comes to him who knows how to wait. Biit some- 
times it comes too late and spoiled in the transit; among 
other things the favor of the long-beloved, the grace of the 
desired. In the days when the queen sat high before the 
multitude, crowned and adored, the love of the humble 
clerk who would have died for the same kind of kiss that 
Margaret gave the sleeping Marot, was unknown, and would 
have been unaccepted if offered. He poured out the liv- 
ing tribute of his heart in vain. His blood watered the 
desert sands where even thistles did not grow, and his sighs 
were lost in the fragrant summer air, where no one cared 
to detect the human agony that mingled with the breath of 
flowers. But there came the time when the queen was dis- 
crowned. Eude hands tore from her the ivory scepter she 
had held, and trailed her royal robes in the dust. Hoarse 
voices shrieked her disgrace as formerly they had shouted 
her praise; and she who had been the guarded and protect- 
ed was now the hunted and pursued. Then his time came 
to the man who had loved and waited; but he gained too 
late. The creature he sheltered in his arms was not the 
queen to whom he knelt- — it was but her ghost. Tier wraith, 
her specter; and the golden cup which had held the wine 
was drained dry when he carried it to his lips. When the 
gods come down from their heights they come only as men; 
and when we win at last, after waiting, our gams do not 
repay our losses, and the gourd is empty. 

Yet to Jim, the queen who had become discrowned and 
brought to his own level, was always the queen. Her 
flesh white with leprosy was the queen’s flesh he would 
have died to kiss. His ideal was undimmed, and the 
past was to him as the present. What though she 
told him she was old and poor, and that he would not know 
her if he were to see her — his imagination refused to realize 
what his reason told him must be true. She was now Mrs. 
Carew, raised by sin above his head, but brought by love to 
the level of his heart; and her letter was hke a draught, of 
wine that is too strong for pleasure. It overpowered him. 


MILLIOKAIRE AND MISER. ’ 219 

SO that he, the hale, stout, vigorous old man, was weakened 
to a womaii^s measure of strength, and for a time could 
bring himself to nothing save that overpowering thought: 
‘‘ She has come to me at last! 

Then he wrote up to London, to the address she had 
given him, to know what he could do for her. and offering 
all the help of which he was capable. 

He did not tell her of Paston nor of Yetta. He wanted 
to be the only one tu help her. That was his miserliness, 
his share of jealousy. He would suffer no stranger to in- 
termeddle with his joy, and he would not divide his office. 
For what had he saved and hoarded all these years? It was 
always the idea of Patty that had stimulated him — always 
the unwritten hope that some day she would come to him 
and he should call her his own. And time but graved 
deeper and deeper in his soul this one. dominant idea — this 
one future flo^5^ering of that restricted life: when Patty 
should come to him and be his, own! when the queen should 
be dismantled, discrowned, dethroned, and abandoned by 
all the world, and he alone should give her succor! Then 
he would have fulfilled his lifer’s great work — he would have 
written his living poem — and Death might then take him 
when he would. 

Many days passed before he received an answer to his 
letter. “ Ma’me Richard was on the go,^’ as one of them 
said, when he helped to pick her up out of the gutter, and 
carry her dead drunk into the back kitchen, where she and 
others made their filthy lair. She was on the go so com- 
pletely that she lost all consciousness of time, and alternat- 
ed between those two states so fatally known— the paradise 
of drunkenness and the hell of getting sober. At last she 
left off going, and then she wrot^ea pitiable account enough 
of her misfortunes and necessities. H^r faithless husband 
was the goat who bore the burden of her woes, and not un- 
deservedly. It was really through him that she had come 
to this shameful grief, and brought from superficial re- 
spectability to ingrained degradation; and though the cause 
does not excuse the result, it at least shares the blame. 
And when she had written the confession of her pressing 
need, and Jim had read it with tears and sobs he would 
have been ashamed of any one seeing or hearing, he took 
down the little wooden box where he kept his hoard, and 
counted out so many sovereigns, with which he bought a 


220 


PASTON CAREW, 


. post-office order, telling her to buy herself what she most 
needed, and come down to Beaton Brows to him. She 
should have life and lodging at his cottage, where never* a 
human foot crossed the threshold save his own: and changed 
as all the place was now, with no one to know her, she 
could pass for his sister, as indeed she. should be. At all 
events, she was to come, and then they would look about 
them, and see how things could be best arranged. To 
which Madame Richard consented, and after due time an- 
nounced her intended arrival. 

By the last ten o^clock train from London, on a dark, 
hot, moonless night, there shuffled down on to the platform 
at Beaton Brows the living wreck of the former handsome 
housekeeper. Jim Sherwood w^as in waiting to receive 
her. He had not formed his imagination to anything be- 
yond Patty as she was, grown a little stouter, with a few 
lines here and there about her face, a few gray hairs, 
maybe, in her luxuriant locks; but always Patty, with her 
erect carriage and handsome ways, her fine dress, her splen- 
dor, and that air of grandeur that she put on, as it might 
have been an armor of brass against the shafts of disdain. 
It was not possible for him to imagine aught else; and when 
there shuffled out of a third-class carriage a broken-down, 
decrepit old woman, lean with the leanness of drink and 
destitution, blear-eyed and haggard, dressed miserably in 
dirty finery bought at second-hand, and smelling strong of 
filthy gin, he did not recognize her, but passed her by, still 
looking for Patty. 

‘‘ You do not know me, Mr. Jim,^^ piped Patty^s quak- 
ing treble, as she stopped before him with an attempt at a 
courtesy more like her grandiose days than the char-, 
woman^s reverence of these later times. She had recog- 
nized him by his dress. “ Am I so very much changed?'*^ 
she added, something which she meant to be a smile, but 
which was only a ghastly grin, fiavored with a leer — a 
spasm of effete coquetry — passing over her poor old hag- 
gard and discolored face. 

Jim Sherwood stood as one suddenly struck to the heart. 

“My God!"” he said, in a low voice, full of the very 
anguish of horror. “ This is never yoii?^"’ 

“I told you I was changed, said Patty, quailing before 
his eyes — realizing in his face the sorrowful infamy of her 
state, and the depth of degradation to which she had fallen 


MILLIOl^AIRE AKD MISEE. 


221 


—seeing her past and her present, as it were, in a mirror 
before her, and appalled at the picture. But she made a 
supreme elfort over herself, and did her best to stand her 
ground. Weakened in will and intellect as she was by age, 
privation, and drink, she yet had flashes of her old strong 
resolute self-command and spirits. “It is many years 
since we met,^^ she said, “ and we are bound to be changed. 
You yourself are not so young as you once was, Mr. Jim; 
but you are always Jim Sherwood, and I am Mrs. Patty. 

“ Come,-’-’ said the old man, a little roughly, “ none of 
that here! What is done is done, and we can not bring 
back the eggs. ISiow let us go home. Where is your box, 
missis 

“ I have only what I stand upright in, and this,^^ said 
Patty, with a little whine — the whine she used to put on 
when she sold flo^wers or matches in the street. 

“ This,^^ was a small bundle pinned up in a red cotton 
handkerchief. It was her all — a few unwashed rags wrapped 
round a gin bottle. 

He took it as a man dazed by a conjurer^s trick. He 
was dazed altogether. This was veritably Patty Oarew in 
fact and substance; but Patty Oarew as he had known her 
— no! a thousand times no! He was no philosopher. He 
could not reason on the identity of the Ego or the solution 
of continuity; but he was conscious of the mystery which 
had puzzled wiser brains than his; and the difference be- 
tween the two terms — with the fact that this was the same 
person as that had been — staggered and dismayed him. 

In this brief interview he had lost all — the past and the 
present alike. His hope had mocked him, his love misled 
him, and Jife had proved itself the cheat so many a man 
has found it. His queen had died. She had melted into 
thin air, and was no more to be recovered than the bubbles 
he used to blow as a boy. The radiant dream that had 
beautifled his life had passed, and in the place of that royal 
love he had this miserable WTeck of womanhood, this fllthy 
nimbus, which he himself had placed on his own shoulders. 
But he would do his duty by her, and stand to his word like 
a man. He would take her to his home, and let her live at 
his charges, as he had promised. And if tlie burden proved 
too heavy for him to bear, he would put her away in de- 
cency somewhere else; and there was always her son, the 


222 PASTOK CAREW, 

millionaire, on whom pressure could be profitably put if 
needs must and he wanted help. 

Meanwhile he must keep his ghastly secret safe, and not 
let the world share in his disappointment. And for the 
present, and at no time, unless absclutely forced, would he 
apply to Paston. He did not care to bring the shadow of 
this formidable disgrace on the fair young head of Patty^s 
granddaughter. God save her! She was^w^hat Patty had 
been in her prime, but purified and made glorious. He 
was not the man to hurt her because he had hurt himself. 
He had made his own bed, and he must lie on it without 
complaint; but he had something in his heart and throat 
he had never had before, and ho felt an older man by ten 
good years than when he drove up to the station in the cart 
which was to take him to his long-desired joy. As he drove 
in silence through the dark lanes, and so on through the 
park to his own cottage, set among the trees and bracken, 
he more than once wished that the judgment of Korah 
might be repeated, and that the earth would open to swal- 
low them both alive. 

Sober, upright, faithful, righteous — if also morose and 
surly— Jim Sherwood to have taken on his hands this 
woman, whose youth had been passed in shame, and whose 
old age was one of infinite degradation! But he had volun- 
teered, and he had promised, and he was not the man to be 
forsworn. He should have looked before he leaj^ed ; hav- 
ing leaped, he must put up with his bruises and stand his 
ground. 

So the time passed as they drove in the shaking cart 
along the dark lanes, Jim tortured with regret and sorrow, 
Patty too benumbed by fatigue and helplessness to feel very 
keenly about anything, but conscious that her ancient ad- 
mirer was feeling like one who had run his neck in a noose 
and did not like the strangling. 

During this time of their drive Paston was probing the 
Dark World, searching for the secrets which had never yet 
been revealed to man; and just as Jim Sherwood helped 
Patty to alight at the cottage door, Planchette wrote under 
her son^s hand: “ Wife, mother, and father watch over 
you! Good-night! We love you!"" Wife, mother, and 
father, but above all that wife! He could never get beyond 
such sentences as these. They were the echo of Octavia"s 
first message — the pattern into which his thoughts had been 


MILLIOE^AIRE AND MISER. 223 

set from the beginning, ''and which he unconsciously repeat- 
ed. Fragmentary and poor as they were, they filled him 
with joy. The dream of hope was then^true! There was a 
life beyond the grave where Love would welcome. Love 
recognized. Love loved. God be thanked for this great 
blessing of revelation! Sweet spirits! beloved souls! Wife, 
mother, father — God bless them for their words! 

‘‘Aline! Aline! you are there and I cannot see you! 
Oh, love! my heart’s love, give me some sign of your pres- 
ence! Aline hear me!” 

In the stillness of the night broke out this prayer, but 
no sign nor sound broke the silence which was its only an- 
swer. Once he fancied that he had heard a sigh, and once 
that a light breath passed his face; but the night wore on, 
and even Planchette moved no more. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

HER ABDIEL. 

It was impossible that the change made by Jim Sher- 
wood in his housekeeping should not be known about the 
place, for all his habits of silence and seclusion. The birds 
of the air carry tales in default of a better Mercury, and 
the reeds whisper them to the wind if no other audience. 
Then by degrees it crept out tnat an old woman, Iris sister, 
was at the gamekeeper’s cottage; and whatever in the 
world had brought her there? 

The news came up to the Hall, where Jim had always 
been trusted and disliked. He was one of those unsympa- 
thetic subordinates, at once incorruptible and unfriendly, 
whom masters keep for security and vilify as indemnifica- 
tion. For so long as he could do his work he would be 
kept on; and maybe after, till he died. French had the 
true gentleman’s policy about his old horses, which he 
turned out to grass when too old for work, and neither sold 
into ill-usage for the sake of the few poor pounds accruing, 
nor shot for the saving of their keep. And what he did 
for his four-footed servants he did also to those of his two- 
handed who had given him the best of their days, and had 
spent all their capital— their youth and strength— in his 
service. Jim Sherwood, the son of the former game- 


224 : 


PASTON CAREW, 


keeper, had been on tiie estate and lived in that same cot- 
tage ever since he was born; and his future settlement was 
as sure as if it had been a prime minister's pension granted 
by Pajliament and* confirmed by royal warrant. 

All the same, French thought himself privileged to know 
something of the old fellow ^s domestic arrangements, see- 
ing that he was his servant and located in his park, and 
that, to a certain degree, was a serf of the soil, whereof he, 
French Clinton, was lord and suzerain. 

Wherefore one day, some time after the advent of Patty, 
French rode over to the cottage, and rapping at the open 
door with his whip-handle called loudly for “.^herwood!^^ 
‘‘ Jipi!’'’ Jim Sherwood flanked fore and aft by a few 
big-lettered words by way of relief to the utterer and speed 
to the hearer. 

It chanced that Jim was out among hi& pheasants, and 
that Patty was thus alone. She had been kept j)erforce 
from drink; for Jim, a Blue Ribbon man, owned none, and 
would not have it in his house. She had finished what she 
had brought with her — that went very soon! — and, set on 
the far edge of the park as the cottage was, she could not 
have crawled across that wide expanse to the nearest pot- 
house, even if she had tried. Thus hemmed in from her 
vice on all sides, she had gained some slight fragments of 
self-respect, and a little of the late years^ accumulated dirt 
had fallen from her. She did really make pitiable strug- 
gles to restore herself, if not to her former state, yet to 
something beyond what her condition had been; to be clean 
and industrious, and to gather her wits about her by an 
effort of the will. 

The place now helped her and now disheartened. At times 
the association of ideas encouraged her to a better en- 
deavor, and at times the contrast flung her headlong into 
despair, to think of what had been and what now was. 
The fierce desire, too, of the habitual drunkard possessed 
her, and she used to beg on her knees for gin till often 
Jim’s stout heart almost gave, way, and pity well-nigh over- 
came his better resolve. But he held on. The Patty 
whom he had loved these fifty years and more had died out 
of life, but the specter which had taken her place had her 
name, and was formed of her material elements, and he 
must be patient with the living for the sake of the dead. 
So they worked on through the waning summer weather — 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


225 


she in her pitiable alternations, he in the stern steadiness of 
his regret— till the day when French rode over to the cot- 
tage to see for himself this new addition to his morose old 
game keeper^ s household. 

Patty was upstairs in her little bedroom when French 
Clinton came hammering at the door with his whip-handle, 
calling ‘‘Jim!^'’ and “ Jim Sherwood without efPect. 
The woman knew at a flash who it was. That unmistak- 
able air of the master sat on him from head to heel, though 
she could not have recognized the slim, smooth-faced boy 
whom she remembered to have once seen, in this strong- 
limbed, broad-shouldered, grizzled man of fifty, who looked 
as if he dvvned the whole earth and had an inalienable stake 
in the Better Land beyond. She was terrified to see him, 
and shrunk behind the blue-draped curtain which hung like 
a wisp beside the window; but French calling loudly, ‘‘Hi! 
hi! Mrs. Sherwood! — what the deuce is the vvoman^s name! 
— hi! woman she was bound by the habit of obedience 
to answer, and came dragging down the stairs to the door. 

“ Meaning me, sirr'’^ she said, with her char-woman^s 
courtesy. 

“ Are 3^ou Jim Sherwood^s sister?^^ asked the master. 

“ Yes, sir,^^ said Patty. 

Jim had impressed this fact on her poor muddled brain 
so strongly that she almost began to believe it. And when 
she had sense enough not to believe it, she had also sense 
enough to know that it was the best thing that could be de- 
vised for her, and to be accepted as Jim Sherwood ^s sister 
would be to be saved from Patty Carew^s punishment. 
Hence it costlier nothing to look into French Clinton ^s face 
and say “ Yes, sir,^^ with a dash of the former creature^s 
cast-iron nerve. 

“When did you come?’ ^ asked French, staring at her 
hard. 

Patty put her hand to her head. 

“ My memory is not very good, sir,” she said, with a lit- 
tle whine. “ I can not say to a week or two. ” 

“ Why did not your brother tell me you were coming?” 
he asked again. 

“ I don’t know, I am sure, sir,” the poor old creature 
replied, feeling all the danger of this cross-examination, 
and not seeing a way out of it. 

“ Where have you lived?” asked French. . 


226 


PASTOK CAREW, 


“ In London/^ said Patty. 

“ Got a husband?^^ 

“No, sir.^^ 

“ A widow?^^ 

“Yes, sir,^^ she said. 

But her look was more vicious than that usually as- 
sumed by widows when speaking of their dead men. 

“ Children?^^ 

“No, sir.^^ 

“ Never had any.^^’ asked French. 

“ I had one son orice,’^ said Patty, with a softer voice, 
her mind going back to the time when Paston was a little 
boy in a blue velvet suit and point-lace collar, and when he 
called Maurice Clinton “ Daddy. 

“ And where is he now?^^ said the master. 

“ Dead,"^ said Patty. 

Had he asked her the name of this dead son the whole 
secret would have been known. The poor muddled brain 
had by now lost the clew, and French, finding it, might 
have learned his way into the heart of the maze. But he 
did not ask, and the peril was safely skirted by. 

“ Well, you have a good berth of it here,^Hie said, “ and 
I hope you will look after Jim and make him comfortable, 
and keep the place tidy. You donT look worth much, 
though; but I suppose you can do something. So good- 
morning, Mrs. — By the bye, what is your name?^^ 

“ Richard,^ said Patty, pronouncing the name in the 
English fashion. 

“ Well, good-morning, Mrs. Richard,^’ repeated French. 
“ If you want anything, you know, you can have it at the 
Hall. Lady Jane is always willing to help the deserving, 
and Jim has been an honest servant to us now, for many 
years, and we would like to do well by him — though he is a 
surly olddog,’Mie added, below his breath; and aloud — 
“ though he should have told us you were coining to live 
with him.^^ 

“ Thank you, sir,^" said Patty, with a feeble flash of her 
old pride, like the faint ray of a winter’s sun in a watery 
sky. “We want for nothing, and I shall hope not to 
trouble my lady.” ’ 

As she spoke, how vividly she remembered the scathing 
scorn of that lady when the master died so suddenly, and 
she, the Creature, was turned out at a moment’s notice. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


227 


spurned and disgraced, where she had been obeyed, flat- 
tered, feared, and caressed! How vividly she remembered 
that day, and how she had had to hold herself in check — 
not to give back insolence for contempt — passion and 
worldly wisdom warring together, and the latter the victor 
only with so much difficulty! No, it was not likely that 
she would go to the Hall for help! Old, poor, degraded as 
she was — below the servants where she had once been mis- 
tress — she would not bring herself to that! It was pain 
enough, when she remembered, to livd here in the game- 
keeper^s cottage, as Jim Slier wood^s sister — she who had 
driven by his master’s side as his wife, and never so much 
as looked kindly at the rough, honest, handsome young fel- 
low; but to ask help of my Lady Jane — no, not if she had 
to die for it! 

The feeling in her heart took its echo in her voice, and 
French looked at her again with more than a shadow of 
surprise. He could not say of what noi* of whom she re- 
minded him. Was it of Jim Sherwood himself? Likely 
enough, and indeed it could scarcely be of any one else. 
Yet her eyes, when she looked up at him as she did just 
now when she refused his proffered help, were not Jim 
Sherwood Veyes. He felt a certain degradation when he 
suddenly bethought him — they were like his mother’s. He 
was angry with Mrs. Richard, and more angry with himself 
for the suggestion; for men as proud as French Clinton 
think their very features should be patented, and that Nat- 
ure should have her sumptuary laws, whereof the lower 
should not be suffered to wear the patterns of the higher. 
He dismissed it from his mind as well as he could, but it 
recurred incessantly. And why the deuce did she remind 
me of my mother?” asked French Clinton of himself, 
twenty times before his ride was over. 

Jim on his side was disturbed that his master had been 
over to the. cottage and unearthed Patty. He made her 
repeat every word of the conversation again and again, till 
her muddled old brain seemed to spin round like a painted 
top, where Jim and Maurice and French and her former 
self, the whole? of the past -and fragments of the present, 
were mixed and compounded together, so that one could 
not distinguish anything clearly nor detach one image from 
another. Then she began to whimper; and Jim swallowed 
an oath and kept silent. 


228 


PASTON CAEEW; 


When French went back 'to the Hall, he naturally told 
Lady Jane where he had been, and what he had seen. He 
told her everything. It was his way, and part of the trib- 
ute she exacted. And among his day’s doings he naturally 
laid the greatest stress on the newest, event — Jim Sher- 
wood’s sister. 

What is she like? A respectable-looking person?” 
asked my lady. 

“Fairly; not overmuch,” was the answer. “She, has 
the look of a drunl^ard, but she did not smell of drink, and 
was sober, though decidedly maffled. Old Jim will not let 
his blue ribbon be stained, I imagine, by any inmate of his 
place. His hand is not a light one. ” 

“ I hope she makes him comfortable and keeps the place 
tidy,” said Lady Jane. 

“ I fancy so. Everything was in perfect order to-day. 
She has a Curious false air of my poor mother about the 
eyes. It quite startled me once when she raised her eyes 
and looked at me. And she has two manners, one the 
cringing, humble, whining manner of extreme poverty — 
and more than mere poverty— and the other, as if she had 
seen better days, and once knew how to respect herself. It 
is really very droll to see the changes. On which account 
I think she has fallen into ruin from a better position, and 
that she has a little secret in her life.” 

“ Well, sir, for an old gamekeeper’s antiquated sister, 
you have been wonderfully observant,” said Maurice, with 
a laugh. “ If she had been a pretty girl, and I had 
brought up such an explicit description, I wonder what you 
would have said to me!” 

“You impudent young puppy,” said French, not dis- 
pleased by even this very left-handed accusation. 

But Lady Jane drew her keen brows together and her 
lips into a thin line as she said, tartly, “ Be quiet, Maurice! 
Your chaff is really at times too broad and unbecoming.” 

It came into her duties as Lady Bountiful, however, to 
go over to the cottage on her own account and see this 
somewhat mysterious sister of the old retainer; and accord- 
ingly, taking Ethel with her, she one day drove in the lit- 
tle pony-chaise across the park to the beautiful spot where 
old Jim had his own nest, and looked after his pheasants 
and partridges. As before, when French had come, no one 
was at home, and my lady knocked with the tip of her para- 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


229 


sol at the door in vain. She, however, took the woman^s 
privilege to enter, bidden or unhidden. The door stood 
open; the place was theirs; Jim Sherwood was their serv- 
ant; and my lady had the great personas idea that her in- 
trusion was an honor. Thence she went into the kitchen, 
calling in her shrill, tart voice for Mrs. Ei chard, but 
only answered by the purring of the cat and the ticking of 
the clock. 

“Perhaps she is upstairs,^ ^ she said, her foot on the 
lowest step of the steep sharp ascent, more like a solid lad- 
der than an ordinary staircase. 

She may be asleep, poor old thing, and we may disturb 
her, said Ethel, who was not inclined for these domestic 
visitations, and thought them inquisitorial rather^thaii 
philanthropic. 

“I will go and see, if I can climb up this dreadful 
place, replied my lady, and forthwith began to climb the 
ladder toilsomely enough. 

Always calling “Mrs. Richard, she went into a room 
the door of which stood ajar, and there in the bed, huddled 
up in a shapeless heap of clothes and protuberances, lay 
something which she supposed must be Jim Sherwood ^s 
sister. Her face was buried in the pillow so that she could 
not see it, and the figure was so still it did not seem to 
breathe. 

Lady Jane saying again “Mrs. Richard touched the 
protuberance she supposed to be the shoulder; but no start, 
no sound, no response of any kind was returned*. She even 
shook her, but Mrs. Richard slept on; and my lady finally 
turned away in a huR, affronted that she could make no 
impression on this somnolent bundle of shawls, petticoats, 
and bones. 

Then she went down-stairs again, saying in her shrill 
voice to Ethel, “ That old creature upstairs is either tipsy 
or dead. I could not make her hear me; and though I 
shook her smartly, she never stirred. 

“ Perhaps she is ill,^^ said Ethel. 

“ I believe she is dead tipsy, said her mother. “ And 
so I shall tell that old fellow when I see him. If he is 
going to disgrace the park like this, he will have to go. 
He is almost past- his work already, and your father has to 
keep a younger man at advanced wages to help him. ” 


230 


PASTON CAREW, 


He has been a faithful old servant/^ said Ethel, 
timidly. 

‘‘ Which does not allow him to keep a drunken old creat- 
ure like that sister of his, to bring discredit on the place, 
snapped my Lady Jane. 

And with that they got into the pony-carriage, which the 
page-boy had been holding, and drove off — to Patty^s in- 
finite relief. 

“That snake! Her hand was like so much poison! It 
went through me like poison !^^ she muttered, as she shuffled 
herself out of the petticoats and shawls beneath which she 
had concealed herself. “ I know that she would have 
know,n me — women have keener eyes than men, and she 
would have known me though he didn^t. You will have to 
put me away in some tidy place in the town — she went 
on to say, as she had said to herself many times already — 
“ some decent place where I shall have a little more com- 
pany than I have here, and not be so confined like. And 
where a neighbor will come and look after me, to talk to 
me, and I shahiT be left alone as I am here, from day^s 
end to day^s end, and where I shall have a little more com- 
pany and a little more liberty, and be able to hawe a drop 
now and then when I feel I want it. ^ 

And with this she began to cry, and so continued weep- 
ing, lamenting, and desiring, till the evening drew in, and 
Jim returned home for liis tea and supper. 

This second visit disturbed Jim Sherwood even more 
than the first. He too knew how much sharper than men 
are women, and how likely it was that one day the secret 
would be discovered. We do not see all the chances from 
a distance, unless we have so much imagination as can con- 
struct a drama or discover a plot. It is only when we are 
face to face with probability that we recognize its dangers. 
It would cost him his place and the pension on which he 
had counted. He knew that, but he would let that go. He 
had put his hand to the plow, and he was not the man to 
turn back. And when Patty whimpered out her prayer 
that he would put her somewhere in Beaton Town, where 
she might help herself by a light day^s work, now and then 
— her prayer meaning simply gin — he answered sternly: 
“ No, missis, none o^ that! While I live you shall be kept 
straight and like a lady; and when I^m gone I sha^uT be 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 231 

none the wiser if you go wrong and run your rigs as you 
have done. 

' So the time passed, and the sultry summer days lay like 
hot flame on the land. Brtfc there were no more scares be- 
cause of the Hall condescending to the cottage. The curi- 
osity of the great folk wore itself away, as Jim Sherwood^’s 
somewhat mysterious sister ceased to interest those who had 
weightier things on hand. Jim grew daily, sadder and older, 
more morose and more taciturn — evermore as if he carried 
a body of death about with him, hidden from the eyes, but 
ever pressing on his heart. He spoke but little out-of- 
doors, and even less within, to Patty when he came home. 
He told her nothing of what he had seen or done; gave her 
no more news of the neighborhood than of himself. And 
isolated as she was, seeing no one with whom she might 
have a passing word, her days passed in that kind of stag- 
nation which preserves the failing body and still further 
clouds the failing mind. 

Thus it was that Patty kneW nothing of her son^s mag- 
nificence, nor of his living here in this very place, so fejv 
miles away. Jim kept the secret for more reasons than 
one. He was ashamed of this miserable ending to his lifers 
romance; and yet in view of that romance — loyal to his 
thought — he preferred to keep Patty unassisted rather than 
ask even her millionaire son for help in his burden. Then, 
he did not care that the beautiful young lady, who was like 
Patty^s Angel, should be humiliated by such a grandmoth- 
er; and with all this there was a curious sense of pride in 
knowing that he not only had Paston in his power, and 
could put the screw on him when he would, but that he, a 
simple peasant, supported the mother of a grandee who 
could buy up all Beaton if he would. The whole life of the 
man had been such a mere vision, such a mere dream and 
thought from the beginning, that now imagination had be- 
come to him as real as fact; and to know that he could 
when he_ would spring this mine on Paston Oarew — that he, 
the poor gamekeeper, was, in point of fact, the support of 
the rich man’s mother and the arbiter of his status and re- 
spectability here — gave him as intense satisfaction in his 
feeling of power as ever had the strongest autocrat, the 
most despotic tyrant. 

Thus the time passed slowly, silently, dolefully. Patty 
gained a little more bodily strength, and lost a little more 


PASTOi^ CAKEW, 

mental sharpness; and Jim used to try to see his former 
handsome Love in the haggard, lack-luster face before him. 
But he could not! — he could not! And so he died daily, 
with ever more sadness and evbr more certainty; and he 
knew that this was the last year when he should look after 
his pheasants and call French Clinton master. 

It often troubled him to tliink what would become of 
this helpless old creature . he had taken to himself when he 
should be dead and she left alone. He had saved a trifle — 
not much for the dissipation of drink , if enough for a few 
years of frugal living; but he knaw full well that so soon 
as his hand was removed Patty would sink back into her old 
foul courses, and that in a comparatively short time she 
would be as destitute as when he had rescued her. This 
was his trouble and his difficulty. When he should die, 
Paston must take up the burden. But how to let him know 
without betraying the secret prematurely? Whom would 
he trust with a letter to be delivered to the milhonaire at 
the fitting time? 

He swept the horizon of his acquaintances in vain. He 
knew no one. There was nothing better, then, for him to 
do than leave a letter in his treasure-box, marked to be de- 
livered into Pasteups own hand after his death. In this let- 
ter he would give the whole history of the woman he had 
taken as his sister, and so insure her fit maintenance. Pas- 
ton Oarevv was reputed a tight hand; but it would not be 
Jim who should accuse him of such inhumanity as to leave 
his own mother to starve! He was sure that Patty would 
not forestall publication and read this letter betimes. She 
had too little curiosity, too little vitality of intelligence, for 
aught beyond the most trivial matters of her daily life. And 
he always carried the key of his money-box with him, hav- 
ing made sure that the lock was one which could not be 
tampered with. 

This arrangement satisfied him, till one day when he met 
Lanfrey Clinton in the park, and the young fellow turned 
with him to look after some sick deer in the inclosure. Jim 
Sherwood cared nothing for either of the boys; but if he 
had a preference, small as it might be, it was for Lanfrey. 
Captain Clinton was too masterful, ‘‘ a regular Tory,^^ Jim 
used to say, meaning anything hectoring and domineering; 
but Master Lanfrey was softer and more reasonable, and he 


MILLION" AIRE AlirD MISER. 233 

didn^t talk so as you didn^t know which end to take, nor 
wh^her he was laughing at you or not. 

After they had walked together for some time old Jim 
said, abruptly: 

“ Do you know Mr. Paston Carew, sir?^^ 

‘‘ Personally? No. Why do you ask?"^ returned Lan- 
frey, startled into evident discomposure. 

“ For a matter of my own,^^ said Jim. 

Lanfrey looked at him with surprise equal to his uneasi- 
ness. 

“ You used to know him well enough,^'’ he said, slowly. 
‘‘ You must have been a man here when he was a boy.^*’ 

‘‘ Just so, sir,-’' said Jim; “ but time changes all things, 
and belike Mr. Carew has forgot me by now.'’"^ 

“ What was he like as a young fellow ?^^ asked Lanfrey, 
glad of the opportunity which had come to him unsought. 

“ He was a dour silent kind of a boy as he grew up, al- 
ways seemed to have something on his mind, and never to 
be content. It was too lonesome a life for a young lad like 
him, but his father would not part with him till the time 
came when he parted with him altogether, and never 
thought of him more. That was Mr. Clinton^s way. He 
was like what I call a duck-’s back. Things went off and 
didnT stick. 

‘‘ Tell me, what kind of woman was the housekeeper?^^ 
asked Lanfrey. 

Jim straightened himself, and looked at his young mas- 
ter firmly and squarely. 

“ The finest woman as ever stepped he said, emphatic- 
ally. “ A good one at heart and a beauty to look at. She 
was any many’s heart, was Mistress Carew; and if Mr. Clin- 
ton had but left her alone, the best gentleman in England 
might have been proud to call her his wife.^"’ 

He spoke with a man^s fervor and a man^s straightfor- 
wardness, prepared to stand by his words, and defying op- 
position. 

Lanfrey did not laugh nor look incredulous. It was a 
new hearing to him, brought up in the faith of the Creat- 
ure^s unfathomable iniquity; and the first word of defense, 
not to speak of praise, for one hitherto scorned and excom- 
municated makes as it were a new epoch for the mind and 
revolutionizes the whole world of thought. Still, he showed 
neither surprise nor dissent, and in his heart was glad that 


234 


PASTOis^ CAHEW, 


any one could be found to speak a good word for Yetta’s 
grandmother, though that one should be only thei^wn 
gamekeeper. All the same, that grandmother was a bitter 
pill, take it how he would; and though he did not agree 
with, he could not blame, the ostracism decreed at the 
Hall. Sis father and mother stood a generation nearer 
than he, and it must be galling to them to see Paston at 
Mock-Beggar when they thought of all that had been here 
at the Hall. Nevertheless, that did not totich Yetta, nor 
ought it to cast over her the faintest shadow of any kind. 

But what do you want with Mr. Oarew?^^ then added 
Lanfrey, after a short pause. “ Why do you ask if I know 
him?’' . 

“Look here, siiv” said Jim, “I’m not long for this 
world. Oh, I know it! don’t tliink to comfort me by say- 
ing as it isn’t so! I’m prepared to go in the Lord’s good 
time, and I don’t care how soon. And that’s the truth. 
When I’m dead I want a letter I’ve written to be given into 
Mr. Paston ’s own hand. I don’t exactly know who to 
trust, for folks are. curious, and may be some one would find 
the seal slack, one of these fine days, and read what warn’t 
meant for him to see. So, when I saw you to-day, and you 
turned back with me, and talked to me of old times, I 
thought to myself, ‘ There’s your chance, Jim Sherwood,’ 
and I took it. Will you take this letter, sir, and give it 
into Mr. Carew’s own hand, not trusting to the post nor 
nothing of that sort, but deliver it yourself when I’m dead?” 

“ Yes,” said Lanfrey. “ I hope that will not be for some 
time to come; but you may trust me, Jim— I will.” 

“ I knowed I could,” said Jim. “ And whether it comes 
soon or late, it won’t come too soon, I warrant you. I have 
had enough of this here life, and may be the other will be 
better. I’ll chance it, anyhow.” 

“ I hear you have a sister living with you now,” said 
Lanfrey; “ I hope you have' left something for her. ” 

“ She’ll do well enough,” said Jim, curtly. “ I’ve left 
her a trifie, and she knows where she can get more. ” 

And Lanfrey caught the old man’s evident disinclination 
for more talk on this head, and respected it. He had under- 
taken to do what was required of him, and that was all that 
was wanted. So, as Jim showed signs of his wonted surli- 
ness,’ the young master said no more, but strode on to the 
inclosure, talking only of the sick deer as he went. The 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 235 

next day he sa^ Jim again in the park, and received from 
him the letter which had to be given into Paston Carew^s 
own hand when the old gamekeeper should be laid to his 
much-desired rest. 

“ And you’ll do a better work than you know of, sir/’ 
said Jim, as he gave him the letter and bade him take care 
of it. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

ON THE FELL-SIDE. 

The difficulty of meeting made half the pain of Lan- 
frey’s love for Yetta— in the circumstances of which, all 
round, was pain enough, take it how he would. Of his 
own nature he was not the man to make a sudden and 
premature proposal, without the warranty of a closer ac- 
quaintance than theirs had been. He did not think pas- 
sion, however imperious — impulse, however powerful — the 
best foundation for a life-long union; and he did think 
that a woman has the right to demand something like in- 
timate knowledge before she grants all that makes the 
worth and value of her life. 

Yet what but premature could he be, if he wanted to 
secure her? Where to meet this daughter of his father’s 
foe? — this hereditary enemy who was the Juliet to his 
Romeo? Where to see her, so as to knit up these first be- 
ginnings into a more compact web? How to come to that 
closer acquaintance whfch should be the natural and logical 
preface of his love? Railing tennis-parties and the like, 
got up by the neighbors, he might beat the country in vain. 
He never met her; and she had deserted Heron’s Pool, 
which he and Ethel — or often he alone — haunted like 
doomed souls wandering by the melancholy banks of Ache- 
ron. And he could not call at Mock-Beggar; nor could 
she come to the Hall. 

Besides this general untowardness of circumstances, lie 
was too much in love to be certain of her liking. This was 
perhaps the sharpest of the many thorns in his prickly pil- 
low. Maurice had no doubt of his acceptance should he 
deign to offer the honor of his name to Paston Carew’s 
daughter; but Lanfreyhad to endure the lover’s doubt and 
fear and jealous pain, and could not believe that the prize 


236 


PASTOlSr CATIEW^ 


he would have won with more than Jacobis serving — than 
Leander's danger — was within his grasp. 

Days went by, and the little poem of which the argument 
had been laid from the first moment of meeting, and 
whereof the action had been carried on so many stanzas 
further at the Knoll — was still incomplete, when one day 
French proposed to his sons — always in a state of mute 
hostility together — to ride over to the Brent Fell mine, and 
see how things were going. The pumping was in full 
activity; and the greedy glede had still to be lavishly fed. 

They made a well-looking and thoroughly English group 
as they rode along the mountain-side, each man with the 
perfect seat of life-long habit, and that peculiar air of mas- 
tery over his animal — rmastery, and good understanding 
together — proper to country gentlemen who are keen sports- 
men. Their horses were of good breed and groomed to 
perfection. Sound as well as showy, brilliant and service- 
able in one, there were no more defective points in them 
than in their riders. Such as they were, they were part of 
French Clinton^s pride — one of the broad outlets of his in- 
come, and among the deeper honey-combings of his estate; 
but to have given up his populous, costly, and practically 
faultless stable, would have been to give up the chief pleas- 
ure and certainly the prime glory of his life. He was never 
so happy as when in the saddle, with his sons and daugh- 
ters about him. For all his sincere Christianity and virtu- 
ous monogamy, the image of Ali Pasha, riding into the 
desert with his body-guard of fifty sons, had a patriarchal 
grandeur which he had always recognized as fine — in a 
Mahommedan; though he dared not go so far as to actively 
envy it in his own person. Still, it was a fine picture; and 
he understood its value— theoretically. 

There was also another personage in the cavalcade to-day 
— Brian — Yetta^s faithful wolf-hound, and now Lanfrey^s. 
Paston had made the poor girl part with her dog on the 
plea of inability to afford his keep. Besides, of what use 
was he in such a country as this about Beaton Brows? the 
miser argued. Indeed, rather than a help he would be a 
hinder an ce in the event of the only danger with which she 
could be threatened — namely, that of uneasy cattle. These 
the dog would incite rather than deter; and for the rest, 
what brigand or footpad was likely to attack her in her 
pony-chaise when she drove out alone with only the groom 


milliokaire akb miser. 


237 


behind? — or when she rowed up the river in her little skiff? 
— of itself representing such an outlay as brought sighs as 
sad as tears when Paston thought of it, and added it up in 
the column headed “ superfluities — from which he was 
always docking one little item after another. 

“ We have no water-pirates on the Beat,” he said, when 
Yetta. pleaded his faithfuP guardianship as poor Brian’s 
claim for consideration. “ And, if anything, he is danger- 
ous in a boat so cockly as yours» which any sudden lurch 
might overset. ” 

So the fiat went forth; Brian was to be sold. By the 
merest chance in the world the news came to Lanfrey’s 
ears in time to forestall Fitz-George Standish; and he 
bought the dear beast at twice his market value, for love of 
the fair hands which had so often caressed him. 

French knew the whole story well enough, and at the 
first was minded to rate his son and send back the dog to 
the hammer. But the nobility of the animal conquered 
the displeasure of the man. After all, the poor brute had 
done no harm, and it could scarcely be assigned to him for 
sin that he had been owned by Miss Carew and sold by her 
old hunks of a father! So French swallowed his intended 
outburst, let off Lanfrey with a quiet sarcasm, and adopted 
Brian as a member of his own kennel — his previous pro- 
prietorship notwithstanding. But he was Lanfrey’s dog, 
and in a manner his minor kind of idol. 

It was one of those beautiful September days which are 
the pride and glory of the North-country, when the loveli- 
ness of summer is just passing into the ripeness of autumn, 
before the effacing fingers of decay have marred the perfec- 
tion of the dying season. The sky was as brilliantly blue 
as that which reflects itself in the Mediterranean; and the 
large white cumulus clouds, which hung without change of 
shape or motion in the upper air, gave the same value to 
the unstained azure as do the snow-mountains of the Enga- 
dine. Stone-chats perched on the granite bowlders splashed 
yellow and black and gray with lichen, and talked to the 
passers-by of all things pertaining to their state. Peewits 
cried like creatures in pain, and ran with one wing trailed 
and drooping along the ground starred with the frosted 
leaves of the butterwort and colored with patches of yellow 
moss reddened here and there by sundew. The grass of 
Parnassus matched its silver and gold with the bronze of 


238 


PASTON CAREW. 


the bog asphodel and the pearly paillettes of the saxifrage. 
The beech-fern put back its fronds^, suggesting the twisted 
petals of the cyclamen, or the butting horns of a goat; and 
the oak-fern made miniature forests in imitation of its giant 
sponsor. Crisped and curly parsley-fern at the base of the 
big stones attested the purity of the air, and brought disap- 
pointment to transplanters; and ling — still in flower if 
passing rapidly to seed — with late heather, golden gorse, 
dying fronds of bracken, and pale-green juniper bushes, 
made a home for beasts and birds and insects, less valuable 
to the sportsman than the naturalist. In the distance, be- 
tween the opening made by the hills, the sea shone like a 
silver band against the sky; and the ships went up and 
down to lands unknown — to those where the summer 
snows never melted, and to those where the winter ^s sun 
still scorched. 

Riding along the rough road, noting the marks on the 
sheep and the numbers of the shaggy cattle pasturing on 
the wild fell-side, French took in the beauty of the scenery, 
and the charm of this late summers day, all the more in- 
tensely for the black chance that was still before them~the 
danger that still threateiied. His now — but for how long? 
His the right to let, to keep, to enjoy, to call his own, if 
not quite to forbid — owing to those vile democratic laws 
which include public participation by means of rights of 
way and the like — and when perhaps a stranger^’s? 

“It would be a pity, sir, if we had to clear out and 
run,^'’ said Maurice, who read his father^s face. 

“ Yes, said French, rousing himself; “we will fight 
to the last shred before we do.'’^ 

“I would prefer any sacrifice rather than this,"*' said 
Maurice, significantly. “ Nothing would be too much that 
should still secure us our own.'’^ 

“ Nothing, save the loss of our pride as gentlemen and 
our dignity as Clintons, said his father, also significantly. 

“ Both of which, it seems to me, would be lost without 
redemption if we had to own ourselves beaten, and see the 
estate pass into other hands,^^ said Maurice. 

“Misfortunes crush but do not dishonor,^" answered 
French. “ Base submission to base conditions does.’’"’ 

“ You should have been an old Paladin of King Arthur's 
time, or a Covenanter with Claverhouse in front of you. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


339 


sir/^ said Maurice, with a smile which it was hard to say 
'whether it was satirical or admiring. 

‘ ‘ Are men of honor and principle so scarce in these later 
times.^^^ returned his father. Jove, you are about 

right, Maurice! You young fellows would palter with dis- 
honor for the sake of your favorite pleasures; and the rem- 
nant who would not hold a candle to the devil are about as 
many as there are fell-side lambs in December. And talk- 
ing of the devil — look where he comes! That impudent 
SCO iindrer daring to use my road!^’ 

This he said as the winding of the hill-side road brought 
them in full view of Paston Oarew and his daughter, riding 
leisurely down the rough-hewn way. 

They had been round the other way by the Brent Pell 
mine — Paston with the cruel greed of the man who has 
sworn to destroy and has already begun to conquer, wishing 
to see for himself how that ruin was advancing, and how 
much nearer he stood to the supreme moment of his desire; 
Yetta simply glad of a ride with her father, and enjoying 
the beauty of the day, as healthy youth knows how. 

'Though Paston had retrenched all that was possible in 
his first established magnificence, he still kept his horses 
and carriages. But all that he had was in some sense 
shabby and inferior; all showed the miser ^s grip, and his 
hatred of spending beyond the arbitrary obligations of his 
position. His horses were well groomed, but manifestly 
underfed. Showy, of good blood, they were ‘‘ brilliant 
screws ^ ^ rather than sound and fresh, though they were 
safe and serviceable. But they had certain defects, visible 
only to experts, which had detracted from their money 
value, and thus made them more acceptable to a man who 
saved pence as others save pounds, and who regarded shil- 
lings as so many bung-holes in the cask. He, the million- 
aire, was not nearly so well mounted nor so well appointed 
as the impecunious country gentleman whose ruin was 
almost an accomplished fact. But Paston contented him- 
self with the knowledge of relative intrinsic values, and let 
those of appearance pass by. Between himself and French 
Clinton, it was the leathern bag full to the brim, and the 
showy silk purse too light to be thrown over the bar at the 
Water Gate; and he cared more for the inside than for the 
out. 

As they came riding down the road — Paston, feeling that 


240 


PASTOK CAREW, 


all this was already his; French^ boiling with indignation, 
hut also with the words, ‘‘Hast thou found me, 0 mine 
enemy?^^ running through his brain; Maurice, divided, as 
usual, between personal admiration and racial enmity; and 
Lanfrey and Yetta frankly rejoiced at the chance meeting 
— ^Brian caught sight of his old mistress, and rushed for- 
ward to greet her. Joy made him forget his education, and 
with the bound of a small lion and the bay of a blood- 
hound he was up against her knees, making her horse 
plunge and rear, startled from quiet circumspection into 
the activities of blind terror. 

The road was rough, narrow, and might easily be danger- 
ous. On the one side rose a steep ascent; on the other fell 
a sufficiently sharp decline. It was a road impossible to 
keep in good repair because of the mountain torrents that 
swept over it in the winter, and at all times it took some 
care in traversing. Yetta^s horse, still plunging and terri- 
fied — Brian still leaping and barking — backed over the 
road, and on to the decline falling away to the river brawl- 
ing below. In another moment he had turned, and was 
off down the hill-side. The startled sheep, bleating and 
scattered; the rough small cattle lumbering along, their 
tails in the air; the loose stones flying and clattering; 
Brian, oblivious to his duties, heedless of Lanfrey’ s voice or- 
French’s whistle, barking wildly, and still chasing the 
horse; the other horses startled, snorting, uneasy — all made 
a scene of peril and confusion that might have well excused 
the girl had she lost her nerve and head. But she did not. 
She sat like a rock, holding up her beast as he thmidered 
down the hill, and at last turning his head sideways to the 
road. Her pride lent her courage. She did not want to 
fail before the Clintons, all of whom were men appreciat- 
ing courage, and disdainful of fear. She would not that 
her father should have cause to blush for her cowardice. 
She also wished that Lanfrey should respect her. Hence 
she kept her nerve and her seat, and at last managed to 
turn her horse’s head laterally to the road, and so. avoided 
the more imminent peril in which she was. 

She sat so still, she was so calm and cool and collected, 
that French Clinton forgave his younge]- son when he 
threw his bridle to Maurice, and, without a word, rushed 
off down the road, seeking to head the horse, and thus 
secure his bridle and rescue Yetta. All the men were now 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


241 


drawn in a group together. They had dismounted; but 
there were no grooms to hold the horses, and one volunteer 
was enough. Maurice cursed his brother in his heart in 
that he had forestalled him and taken the initiative; but 
he could not help himself; and two followers running down 
the road would be ludicrous. 

Paston stood by his horse head like a statue. His in- 
stinct was to cry out as a man in mortal terror would — his 
habit of reticence and self-control kept him dumb and mo- 
tionless. His face alone spoke. His eyes, no longer veiled 
and fish-like, were opened wide and fixed in horror on his 
daughter; his breath came in labored gasps; his dilated 
nostrils were strained to their utmost width; his thin lips, 
curled underneath, showed the white clinched teeth. 

His enemy as he was, French pitied him — stirred for his 
own part by the courage and peril of the girl, and thinking 
how he should feel were this one of his own daughters who 
might be killed before his eyes at any moment, while he 
had to stand there looking on, helpless to aid or prevent. 
No one spoke. Only the clattering of the stones, the thun- 
der of the horse^s hoofs, and the cries of the startled creat- 
ures broke the summer stillness, and brought confusion 
where there had been such a sense of peace. 

Finally Yetta conquered in the struggle. She drew in 
her horse and turned his head up the hill, scrambling back 
on to the road just at the point which Lanfrey had gained. 
Then she let him take her bridle — if it pleased him to think 
that he had had a hand in rescuing her, and that he was 
now taking care of her. They came slowly back to the ex- 
pectant group moving quiclily forward to meet them — 
Yetta, soothing and caressing her horse with hand and 
voice, and Lanfrey rubbing the soft excited muzzle, while 
2oouring out a very dithyramb of exultant praise, wherein 
words, warmer and more explicit than he would have 
uttered save under such heat and pressure, sunk into 
YYtta^s soul like wounds made by a golden sword— half 
pain, half pleasure — half pride, half shame. 

She looked so beautiful, she was so sweet and natural in 
bearing, and had been so brave and capable, that French 
felt his enmity melt away like snow-fiakes in May falling 
lightly on a flower-bed. 

“ Let me congratulate you on your courage. Miss 
Carew,’^ he said, heartily, laying his hand on her horse's 


242 


PASTOIS^ CAREW, 


neck. “ It was the most splendid bit of pluck I ever saw, 
and one of the best bits of horsemanship. I had no idea 
you were such a horsewoman 

He lifted his hat, and his eyes perforce took in Paston. 

‘‘ I told you before you were plucky,^"^ said Maurice, with 
his imperious admiration. 

Yetta smiled and bowed to French as she said, quite sim- 
pl}^ “ Thank you, ignored Maurice, and then looked at 
her father, on whose livid face cold drops stood like rain. 
To him she stooped low from her saddle, with infinite ten- 
derness, and again that smile, which was like a sunbeam, 
woke her sweet face to glory, as she said, in her caressing 
musical voice, “You were not frightened, dear, were 
you?^^ 

“ I trusted you,^"’ said Paston, making a strong effort 
over himself. 

Had he yielded to his impulse, his desire, he would have 
taken her in his arms, and would have kissed her face with 
all a father^s gladness that she had escaped the danger 
which might have been her death — with all a father^s pride 
that she had acquitted herself so well. But he did not 
yield; and French hated him for his coldness. And yet liis 
face — that had been agonized enough! 

For himself, French was, as Maurice afterward expressed 
it, “completely bowled over.'’^ Looking at Yetta, he 
scarcely wondered at Lady Janets defection; at Maurice’s 
willingness to buy dishonor at such a price; at Lanfrey’s 
gratuitous infatuation. He scarcely wondered, though he 
did not share. That others should have gone over to the 
enemy, lured by such an envoy, no longer surprising him, 
was not the same as going over himself. 

Presently he said, abruptly; “ You must get off, Miss 
Carew. Your horse has a stone in his shoe.” 

Lanfrey, always at her horse’s head, pushed by before 
Maurice could interfere, and offered her his hand. She 
came to the ground as lightly as a fiower; and Maurice saw 
that Lanfrey held her hand more closely clasped and just 
that thought longer than was necessary. 

“ That off foreleg, Maurice,” said French to his eldest 
son as the handier of the two. 

“ Let me,” said Lanfrey, hastily and warmly. 

“ Thank you, allow me,” said Paston, as hastily but 
coldly. 


MILLIOHAIKE AKD MISEK. 


243 


“ Give way, Lan/^ said French, peremptorily. “ Your 
brother will do it better. Let my son, Mr. Carew,’’"’ he 
added — how the words nearly choked him! “Stop — 1^11 
do it myself. 1^11 do it best after all. 

With which he stooped down, lifted the foot, and with 
his own strong well-gloved hands hammered out the stone. 

It was a rare moment for Paston Carew to see French 
Clinton doing groom^’s work for Y^tta; but he stood there 
without a muscle of his face moving — silent, self-possessed, 
inscrutable, composed — with the Clinton bonds locked up 
in his safe «at home, and the Clinton ruin in his pocket. 
He disbelieved in the future success of the mine, and he 
held the downfall of the ancient house to be one of time 
only— emphatically within measurable distance from this 
moment. Unlike French, whose more generous nature 
had led him to an act of supreme courtesy by the instinct 
of admiration, he was not stirred a hair^s-breadth for 
the acknowledgment of sympathy. His hatred did not 
slacken; his desire for vengeance burned as strongly as be- 
fore; his designs were as cruel; his plans were as fierce. 
His mother^’s spirit, which now seemed ever about him, still 
inspired him with the very righteousness of hate, and whis- 
pered to him that it was both lawful and right to destroy 
his father’s house in revenge for the destruction of her fair 
fame and the loss of his own rights. This act of French 
Clinton’s was the first involuntary act of homage and con- 
fession of inferiority; and he let him do his groom’s work 
as he would, holding himself apart and silent. 

Yetta stood in the ‘midst of the group made of the men 
and horses, with Brian still asking for caresses, as the nine- 
teenth-century translation of some fair-haired Amazon in 
the midst of her Athenian captives. She caressed Brian; 
hung lovingly near her father; looked with eloquent shy- 
ness at Lanfrey, and with frank and graceful pleasure at 
French; while the bright September sun shone over them 
all like aerial gold, and touched the whole picture with liv- 
ing light. 

Before they separated, Lanfrey found a moment in which 
to say, in an under-tone: “ My sister Ethel is wearying to 
see you again. Will you not come up to Heron’s Pool 
once more? If so, when?” 

“ I can not say when,” she answered, also in a lower voice. 
Was she doing wrong? — she almost felt as if she were, but 


24 : 4 : 


PASTOl!^ CAKEW, 


also as if she must. “ But I will, the first day I can. Your 
sister will be sure to be there?^^ 

Sure/ ^ he said. 

Her words made as it were a new life for Lanfrey, and 
the glad hours rang out a golden chime of infinite joy. He 
should see her then again — soon — and without restriction; 
for Ethel, his devoted friend as well as adoring sister, was 
no restriction. If needs be, he would ask Yetta to be his 
wife in her presence and hearing; and he would feel her 
witness both an additional sanction and a greater sanctity. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

FOKESHADOWS. 

But now the time came for the dissolving of this strange 
social amalgam. French himself put up Yetta, and occu- 
pied himself like a veritable father with her skirts and 
reins and stirrups. He had never seen her so near before 
— never seen her smile, nor heard her voice; and no true 
Clinton could be indifferent to the charms of a beautiful 
woman. What a thousand pitied that she had such a fa- 
ther! If Paston had been any one else, how gladly she 
would have been welcome at the Hall I How it irked the 
large-handed hospitable country gentleman not to be able 
to say to her Cornel^’ — not to be able to throw the whole 
sorry fabric of their enmity to the winds, like the dry seeds 
•of a poisonous weed, and then and there make friends with 
his hereditary foe! For a moment there flashed across the 
more generous part of this proud nature a kind of desire 
to offer his hand to Paston, and for the sake of his daugh- 
ter let all the black by-gones be emphatically b3^-gones. But 
one glance at that glassy-eyed immovable face chilled the 
broad human impulse, and saying to himself: “ Xo, by 
Heaven, never!” French cried out: Now, boys, we must 
be going !’^ — and flung himself into the saddle as if he 
would escape a danger. 

Then they all mounted and prepared to go — French and 
Maurice coldly saluting that objectionable father, but Lan- 
frey offering his hand — their salutes as coldly returned as 
given, while in Lanfrey’s warm young grasp was laid a 
hand as limp and lifeless as if it had been a dead fish. Pas- 


MILLIOKAIKE AKD MISEK. 


245 


ton was resolved that his enemies should not be able to 
score a single point against him. Pride for pride, coldness 
for coldness, repulsion for repulsion— he gave them back 
all they brought to him in fuller measure than their own. 
They should never be able to say that he had made so much 
as half a step toward them. What had to come should 
come from them. And what had to come was their sub- 
mission, not his. 

To Yetta every kind of cordiality possible to the occasion 
was shown — every kind of courtesy was proffered lavishly, 
unmistakably, with the intention of showing that she was 
out of it all, and that she was not included in the feud. But 
beneath Maurice '’s high-handed admiration ran a fierce 
under-current of jealousy in that she so plainly preferred 
his brother to himself, and so still more plainly made him 
feel that she disliked and disregarded him. He scarcely 
knew which feeling was the stronger — his admiration of her 
beauty or his anger with her personally — whether it was 
love or hate that he felt most keenly; for he felt both; and 
the combination was painful enough. 

By Jove!^^ said French to his eldest son, as they rode 
up the road — Lanfrey lingering behind, and Brian follow- 
ing with drooping tail and bended neck, breaking his dog’s 
heart for pain at parting with the mistress he loved, and to 
whom he was conscious he no longer belonged, your 
mother was right as well as wrong. You might do worse 
for yourself as a man, Maurice, than marry that sweet girl, 
if scarcely worse as a gentleman to make such an alliance. 
If we could keep old Paston’s head under water for half an 
hour it would be a good thing for everybody. If he were 
out of existence I would not say nay. She is any man’s 
choice!” 

“ She is certainly very lovely,” said Maurice, with a sud- 
den flush on his cheek and a strange flash in his eyes. 

At that moment, the road widening, Lanfrey touched 
his horse and rode up to his father and brother, ranging 
himself on the outside next to Maurice. It almost seemed 
as if he had heard their conversation and divined its mean- 
ing. 

‘‘ I confess,” continued Maurice, with his grand air, 
‘‘ she makes me forget her birth when I am with her. The 
father is a hard pea enough; but she might turn the head 
of a colder man than I. ” 


246 


PASTOIS- CAREW, 


“You never seem to take into account the chance of her 
refusing you/^ said Lanfrey, with a bitter little laugh. 

“ In your favor, Lau? Do you think that possible, dear 
bov?^^ asked Maurice, as if with genuine surprise. 

“ Don^t be a fool, Lan,^^ said his father. “ You seem 
incapable of understanding the position. You don^t count 
in the matter. The girl is charming. I acknowledge that 
willingly; but after all, in view of her father, she is no 
match for one of my sons, and I do not think the most 
pressing need would make me consent. I do not know; 
but I think not. 

“ And if you would consent to Maurice’s marriage with 
her, why not to mine, sir?” asked Lanfrey, hotly. 

“Just for the reason you do not seem able to compre- 
hend,” was the answer. “Your marriage would be a 
come-down without any advantage to the estate as compen- 
sation. Maurice’s at least would save the land. But I 
spoke of the girl’s charms as one might speak of a picture 
■ — a piece of music — something impersonal, and that can 
not be denied. For all that, I have not swallowed old Pas- 
ton, body and boots, and it would be a hard struggle to 
make me.” 

“ Is a man’s love no argument? — has it no claim ?” asked 
Lanfrey; while his brother whistled “ Phew! now the cat 
has jumped out of the bag!” and laughed as if he had 
heard a good joke. 

French looked at his younger son from under the brim of 
his hat — looked at him as if he would hav^e looked him 
through. He had begun to cool a little on his sudden en- 
thusiasm, and to fall back on his normal state of hostility. 

“ Yone!” he said, sternly. “ None! So now you have 
your answer, for the last time given. To you my consent 
will never be given — never! so help me God!” 

“ Father! do not forswear yourself!” broke in Lanfrey, 
in a strange voice of mingled horror and entreaty. 

“ To Maurice, all other means failing, it might,” con- 
tinued French, not noticing the words; “ but to you, for 
your mere selfish desires — your puerile fancies — never! So 
now shut up, Lan. Your folly forces me to be severe; but 
you know it pains me to speak to you harshly, as you make 
me, on this matter. ” 

“ I can afford to wait,” said Lanfrey, in a clear voice. 
“ Time will prove my friend.” 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


247 


Meanwhile Pastou and Yetta rode on in silence; he with 
a beating heart he did his best to still — with a pride which 
matched that of Satan ^s when he thought it better to reign 
in hell than serve in heaven — she with thoughts and sensa- 
tions she tried to subdue and was somehow compelled to 
cherish. 

As Paston carried about with him the consciousness of 
his mother^s spirit, inspiring vengeance and fanning resolve, 
so had she that of Lanfrey, and his love and her own — 
which she only dimly knew and did not acknowledge. The 
circumstances of the way were full of him. The birds 
seemed to echo his words; the flowers to write his name. 
The heaven hid him in its brightness, and the purple shad- 
ows of the hills were as his reflection. She tried to believe 
that he had helped her in her danger — that she owed him 
her life. It was so sweet to think that Lanfrey had saved 
her! that she had done a little — just enough to free herself 
from reproach — and that he had done all the rest! She 
was too true a w^oman to be bitten with the modern mania 
for feminine individuality. Girl as she was, essentially 
tender, modest, and incurious about certain aspects and 
contingencies of life, she had not fashioned for herself her 
ideal marriage, nor made out the portrait of her desired 
lover. She had not said to herself : “ I will marry a states- 
man, a soldier, a country gentleman, a man of title. She 
did not know whether she would like to be worshiped as a 
superior, or to worship as the inferior. All the same, the 
law of her nature was that lovely womanly tenderness 
which made the grandeur and strength and nobility of the 
man more precious than her own direct glory; and she was 
of the kind who, when she should come to the full con- 
sciousness of • differences, would prefer to be the wife and 
mother of great men rather than be herself notorious in the 
world or famous in history. Hence she liked to feel that 
Lanfrey had had a hand in saving her — which he had not 
had — and to carry to him gratitude and honor as his earned 
reward. 

So they rode on in silence — her thoughts sitting as light 
upon her face, and transforming all she saw to beauty, all 
she heard to song — ^his rioting in lurid flames through his 
whole being, as now he exulted in what he had already got, 
and now stretched out his lean brown hand for more, feel- 
ing the time long and the way dreary until he should have 


248 


PASTON CAKEW, 


accomplished all. When he and Yetta should be estab- 
lished at Clinton Hall — he the owner and she the inheritor 
—then he would be content. Until then “ hell, the shadow 
of a soul on fire/^ was the place where he dwelt, and 
“ heaven, the vision of fulfilled desire/^ still mocked him 
and eluded him. 

Then he said suddenly: “ That house is doomed, Yetta. 
The mine is a failure, and they are ruined.’’^ 

Startled out of her brooding silence, where all was unac- 
knowledged love and confessed beauty, Yetta felt as if she 
had been struck somewhere about her heart. That hand- 
some, well-set-up, prosperous country gentleman- — the lo- 
cal lord through whose domain they were now riding— who 
had been so courteous and so kind — who looked so every 
inch the ideal of the English magnate, chief in his degree 
and supreme in his plan — the owner of that fine old Hall — 
the father of Ethel, and the head of the house of which 
Lanfrey was the most beautiful member — he, to be on the 
brink of ruin — he, to have recorded against liim the doom 
which cast low a greater than he, sentenced at his own feast 
— no wonder that she started and shivered and felt the evil 
omen of her father’s W'ords, as he had once felt the hooting 
of the owl when she had spoken of his approval of her life’s 
choice — when it should be made. 

‘‘ Oh, father, not that!” she said, tears in her voice as 
well as in her eyes. “ It is too dreadful to think of!” 

“It is what they themselves have worked for,” said 
Paston, coldly. “ Generation after generation they have 
been diligent in their own destruction; and now the net is 
closing round them, and they are caught without hope of 
escape.” 

“ I will pray God to help them!” said Yetta, in a low 
voice. 

Paston’s thin lip lifted itself over the sharp-pointed tooth 
which represented the ripping tusk of his brutish ancestc^’s. 

‘‘ Faith can do much,” said he, dryly, “ but I question if 
it will put the Clinton family on its legs again or buy back 
their estate. Delenda est Carthago, my girl! Look that 
out when you get home, and lay the lesson to heart. The 
Clintons of Clinton Hall are doomed, and the estate will 
pass into other hands. ” 

Yetta did not answer. The sun had fallen out of the 
sky for her; the birds had no meaning in their song, the 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


249 


flowjers no significance in their beauty; the life of nature 
had run out; and she felt as if the whole mystery of joy, 
the whole miracle of being, were a mere dream and name, 
no more. With such grave disaster threatening Lanfrey 
and all he loved, how could she be glad? — how should she 
not rather be in mourning — and in mourning keep silence? 

Paston glanced at her as she rode by his side pale, down- 
cast, dispirited. He was sorry that he had spoken so ab- 
ruptly. She reminded him of a fiower that has been killed 
by a sudden shock of electricity, and he regretted the pre- 
cipitancy of his hate. 

‘‘ But it had to come/^ he thought, excusing himself. 
‘‘ She must know it before she has got herself entangled, 
for she must know that their ruin would be my eternal for- 
bidding V’ 

As if a girPs love ever measured itself by a father^ s hate, 
or cast up a sum in arithmetic wherein figures stood as 
barriers according to their value! Poor or wealthy, Lan- 
frey Clinton would be always— Lanfrey — to Yetta; always 
one of the kings of men whom she must respect, and in 
this respect honor herself. And her father^s words failed 
in their full meaning, and carried with them no kind of 
personal application outside their inextricable sorrow; for 
what hurt Lanfrey Clinton must hurt her as well. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE BARRIERS BROKEN. 

Not very long nor yet immediately after that strange 
meeting on the fell-side, Yetta rowed up to Heron^s Pool. 
Rather than to fulfill the promise she had the girPs bash- 
ful fear she ought never to have made, she came to look for 
the royal fern, said to grow in some mysterious place, 
where it was never found, on Fitz-George Standish^’s side of 
the pool. Doing her best to deceive herself — as, alas for 
poor human nature, the most honest among us do when we 
obey the impulse we dare not openly confess — she only 
hoped, as a kind of side issue not touching the central 
object, that she might fall in with Ethel during her search. 
That central object was, of course, the finding of the 
flowering fern; wanting a root for her own rockery, where 


250 


PASTON CAREW, 


it was more than doubtful if it would grow. Still, she 
hoped that she should see Ethel. It was so long since they 
had met, and she was so very fond of her! 

Perhaps Lanfrey would be with his sister? That would 
be pleasant; but it was not at all likely. The shooting 
season was in full activity, and men like the Clintons live 
only for sport, and despise all that is not danger to them- 
selves or death to something else. No, she should probably 
not see Lanfrey, for all that he had asked her so earnestly 
to go. She should see only Ethel. And with this, and a 
root of the osmunda, she would make herself content. 

Eormulating one thing, hoping, feeling, desiring another, 
Yetta rowed bravely up the river, while Lanfrey and Ethel 
walked across the park to the stile, and through the wood 
to the pool, which of late had been their veritable Acheron. 
It was in the air that Yetta Carew would come to-day. It 
was as if Providence had ordered all things specially to 
make her visit safe. Maurice and his father were at the 
bank; Lady Jane and Sophia w^ere paying visits; the other 
two girls were practicing tennis; and thus Ethel and Lan- 
frey were free to go where they would unaccompanied and 
unsuspected. Hope and faith were about equal as they 
Walked briskly through the park and discussed their 
chances. 

‘‘ She is sure to come soon — she promised, said Lan- 
frey; and this is now the sixth day!'’^ 

‘ ‘ I feel that she will, said Ethel, disdaining reason and 
relying on intuition. 

Presently Brian whined and pricked up his ears. Shiver- 
ing with excitement he ran to the water^s edge, looking 
restlessly to the left where the hidden stream went slowly 
toward the sea, whining with the sensitive impatience of a 
dog who knows before he sees. And soon after, with one 
last good stroke, there shot round the corner where the 
trees came down and hid the river from their sight, the 
light blue skiff which brother and sister knew so well; and 
Yetta, sweet, shy, radiant, like a second Undine clad in 
pale sea-green, floated into the still waters of the broad 
pool, as she had floated on that memorable day when she 
had rowed up to Camelot, and found her Lancelot waiting 
to receive her. 

Lanfrey drew a deep breath as a man suddenly relieved 
from pain, and broke out into a joyous laugh; Brian barked 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


251 


frantically; and Ethel, mild, mouse-like Ethel, smiled half 
sadly and wholly lovingly, as she said, by way of greeting: 

‘ ‘ How glad I am you have come ! I thought I was never 
to see you again. 

‘‘ And I you,^^ replied Yetta. “ So you see I took the 
law into my own hands, and came to the old place again. 

‘‘ To find us?^^ asked Ethel. 

‘‘And the royal fern, answered Yetta, laughing, to 
cover the sudden blush that reddened the very roots of her 
golden hair. But the laugh died away, and the blush re- 
mained. 

“We were beginning to be afraid, when Brian made us 
certain,^’ said Lanfrey. 

“ To think that a dog should know so much better than 
we!^^ said Ethel. 

“ But dogs are so faithful — they love so much, returned 
Yetta, simply. 

“ And do not human beings love too?^^ asked Lanfrey, 
his jealousy in arms, as it was wont to be on the slightest 
provocation. He had helped her to alight by now, and 
they stood in a little group together — Brian pressed lovingly 
against his old mistress, as she caressed his noble head and 
stroked his pointed muzzle. 

“Yes, and human beings too,^^ she answered, with a 
jiretty, sensitive little smile to Ethel. 

She had not yet once looked full at Lanfrey^ s face, while 
he had not taken his eyes away from hers, seeking to read 
it as an old Rosicrucian might have sought to read the hid- 
den secret of his mystery. 

“ I am specially glad you have come to-day, for I am 
going away veiy soon — early next week,^^ then said Lan- 
frey, abruptly. 

Yetta turned manifestly paler, and the light left her face 
as it had when her father announced the Clinton ruin. 
Her clear skin betrayed her emotion so quickly. Her face 
was a very mirror, wherein, all passing angels, all thoughts 
and feelings, showed themselves. 

“ It will be awfully sad for me,^^ said Ethel, tears in her 
voice as well as in her eyes. “ When Lanfrey is not at 
home, I feel lost. ^ ^ 

“ Yes, you must,^^ said Yetta, simply. 

“I see so little of you. Miss Carew, it will be neither 
pain nor relief to you,^^ said Lanfrey. 


252 


PASTON CAREWj, 


Surely no relief/^ she answered, quickly. 

Will you, then, be sorry? — pained is too strong a word, 
but will you be sorry? Not so sorry as Ethel, but in a 
gentle, charitable kind of way?^^ 

He tried to speak lightly, perhaps to hide the tremor in 
his voice. 

She hesitated, and again looked at Ethel, of whose timid, 
shrinking personality she seemed to have somehow made a 
tower of strength for herself to-day. 

“ The loss of one out of a society so small as ours is 
always a loss,^^ she answered, with the disingenuousness of 
modesty. 

‘‘ Only on that ground? — only as a unit from the gross 
sum? — a piece out of the mosaic? 

Perhaps more than that,^'’ said Yetta, laying her hand 
on EthePs. 

I hope so,^^ said Ethel, gravely", her poor little parched 
lips quivering. 

She had battled with her jealousy, and subdued it to 
reasonable obedience. Lanfrey’s happiness was dearer to 
her than her own; and she would rather he found this hap- 
piness in fullest amplitude in, a love that should take him 
away from her and destroy the. cherished dream of a home 
together, than be less happy and wholly her own. All the 
same, it was a pain — pain bravely borne and well concealed, 
but ever there, like the blood-stain which nothing can wash 
out, but wdiich may be covered over. 

She was her brother's confidante in this grave matter of 
Yetta Carew. She knew that he had resolved to brave 
ever3dhing, and throw his life on the die; that — the denial 
'of his father and mother; his certain banishment from 
home when it should be known; his probable rejection by 
Paston, scorning the younger son where the elder might 
have found favor; his position at the bar as yet to make — 
all this notwithstanding, he intended to ask Yetta to-day if 
she loved him well enough to believe in him and to wait 
for him. His brother’s pretensions had decided him to 
take this premature step. Before he left he wanted to 
have the right to secure the girl he loved from a proposal 
which, as things were, was substantially an insult, and 
which, should it ever come to be a transacted fact, would 
be the death to her of all that makes life worth living. 
Had it not been for this he would have held his peace and 


MILLIOITAIRE AND MISER. 


253 


bided his time; but the chance of some violent demand gave 
the casting vote to his desire, and made that a duty which 
else would have been rashness and selfishness. 

‘ ‘ When I am away I want you to write to me, said 
Lanfrey, after a short pause. 

Yetta looked up, startled. She was one of the maidenly 
girls of the world who believe in modesties and reticence, 
and had not taken the modern habit of general fraterniza- 
tion with young men. She had never written to a man in 
her life, save to her father, and those school letters to her 
French and German masters; and Lanfrey^s sudden de- 
mand for a permitted correspondence was a new departure 
she did not quite know how to follow. 

/‘I do not know that I can do that,^^ she answered, 
gravely, but in desperate trouble too. 

Why not? asked Lanfrey, with impatience and un- 
reasonableness. 

.‘M do not think my father would quite approve of my 
doing such a thing, she said. Indeed I am sure he 
would not! He would never allow it!^^ 

But if he did?-— if he gave his consent, and said that 
you might write to me and let me write to you, if you 
liked— would you?^^ persisted Lanfrey. 

‘‘With his consent? — write to you wliile you were 
away?” hesitated Yetta, feeling as if she were being 
morally drowned in strange waters. 

“ Say yes,” whispered Ethel. 

“ Yes,” repeated Yetta, slowly, in that one word break- 
ing down a dozen barriers and giving away something of 
her soul. 

For the “ first of anything that a woman gives is so 
much; and to some the promise of a letter is as tremendous 
as to others the promise of the life! 

“ You mean this? and all that it includes?” he urged. 
Then speaking rapidly, he added: “I am going away 
soon, and time is short. I must have it all made clear, 
and know your very heart and inmost thoughts. For I love 
you too much, my darling, to draw you into any position 
you do not feel strong enough to hold and would not will- 
ingly undertake. But you will be strong enough, Yetta? 
— that sweetest name of all the world! — you will hold to 
me? You can trust yourself as you trust me? You will 


254 


PASTOI^ CAEEW, 


be faithful and true to me, and let no one warp you? You 
will do what I ask? Tell me!^'’ 

He took her hands in his and drew her near to him, not 
knowing that in the rush of his own emotion he had made 
nothing clear, and had spoken to his own heart, not to her 
intelligence. 

‘‘ I do not know what you wish me to do,^^ said Yetta, as 
her last feeble stand, looking round for Ethel. But Ethel 
had disappeared. 

‘‘ I want you to tell me that you love me — that you will 
be faithful to that love — that you will wait for me if need 
be for years — that you will let nothing and no one divide 
us, neither time nor absence, neither your father nor my 
people. I want you to be engaged to me; to be my 
promised wife before I go away; and when you have 
promised, to be brave and constant. Tell me that you love 
me, Yetta! My heart will break if you do not, for you do 
not know how much I love you!'’^ 

She was silent. Her hands were still in his; her face was 
pale and turned a little away; her soft eyes were hidden 
beneath their down-dropped lids. Her heart beat so that 
it choked her voice, and she scarcely knew whether at this 
supreme moment of self-revelation pain or pleasure was 
predominant. Lanfrey drew her yet closer, and passed one 
arm round her waist; and she did not resist. 

“ Tell me you love me!'’^ he pleaded, in a lower voice. 

She turned yet more away; then suddenly she seemed to 
abandon herself, and hiding her face on his shoulder, she 
laid one hand on his upper arm, and said, in a low, distinct 
voice, “Yes, I love you!’"’ 

“ God bless youB^ he whispered, scarcely able to speak, 
as he pressed her to him, and kissed her sweet face with 
that mixture of reverence, gratitude, and Joy which makes 
up a true man^s truest passion. 

“ And you will be faithful to the end, and brave through 
all the trials that may come?^^ 

She drew back her head and lifted up her eyes to his. 

“Yes,^^ she said, with simple solemnity; “I will be 
faithful to the end.^^ 

“ And no other shall ever claim you?’^ 

“ None! If I do not marry you, I will never marry any 
one,^^ she said. 

“ Now I am content, said Lanfrey. “ My darling. 


MILLIONAIRE AND ITlISER. 255 

how can I ever thank you enough for this! God bless 
you! Ah, but you shall never repent this moment!’^ 

So now they were engaged; she the creature’s grand- 
daughter, and he the son of the house which that creature 
had dishonored — with the parents on either side mutually 
hostile, and not likely to be brought over! 

What was that to these two young people sitting there 
in the autumn sunshine, making their own heaven and 
carrying their own joy, as flowers carry their perfume and 
birds bring with thern melody? No thought of an un- 
friendly future disturbed them; for were they not strong 
enough to meet and overcome all the forces which Fate 
could bring against them? Who dishonors love by doubt? 
who looks beyond the cradle to the grave? who pictures 
that sleeping human rose-bud as a withered and decrepit 
woman? a man hacked and hewn by passions and by sufler- 
ing? Love, building his shining castle on a quicksand, 
believes the foundations to be as, solid as the eternal hills; 
and the sorrows which come by time and experience come 
as the snows of winter after the roses and lilies of summer 
— in their sequence and inevitable, but not foreseen nor 
provided for. It was summer sunshine and in the day of 
roses to these two sitting there hand in hand and heart 
given to heart; and their faith in the future equalled their 
happiness in the present. 

Everything was crystal clear to Yetta. Her father would 
not oppose her. He did not know Lanfrey yet, but^when 
he should, then it would be all as smooth as halcyon seas. 
How could he fail to love and respect him as he de- 
served to be loved and respected? And how could he 
refuse her happiness? Like the dazzling veil, gold-in- 
wrought, flung over the face of Mokanna, love flung ^the 
disguise of hope over fear; and the hate she dimly knew 
and dared not fully recognize was as one of those fiends of 
darkness which come in the night, felt rather than dis- 
cerned, known rather than seen. 

Lanfrey understood things a little more clearly. He 
knew that he had a hard fight before him; but he trusted 
to himself — and love — to conquer in the end. And he had 
done well to secure this priceless treasure betimes. What- 
ever happened, nothing could now divide them — and she 
was safe from his brother’s ruder handling and his moth- 
er’s interested advocacy. Ah! to hold her as his own— to 


^50 


PASTON CAREW, 


know that his happiness was secured, and that she was now 
protected — what joy! what peace! How fair and sweet was 
life! how fruitful in perfect beauty would be the future! 

An hour passed in this sweet dream — this wandering in 
the glad Eden of faith, where humanity becomes once more 
half divine and the curse does not run. The lovers gave 
no heed to time. They forgot both place and outside facts; 
they forgot even Ethel, hiding away there in the wood, 
quietly weeping for that which she had lost and that other 
had gained. Their selfishness was. part of the inalienable 
condition of their state. Had they been less thoughtless 
they would have been less loving; and for one of the few 
times of life the virtue of altruism would not have been a 
virtue at all. They knew nothing but each other and the 
glorious atmosphere woven like light about them by the 
hands of love. Their world was in each other^s eyes. His 
brave confident words were her a'nthems — her tender hope- 
ful ones, his hymns. The voices of the hidden birds, and 
the music made by the light wind among the trees, came 
as faint symphonies married to the dominant theme; and 
the glory which redeems the gloom — the joy for the sake of 
which we bear the sorrow — carried them up through all the 
ills of life, and made them free only of its hopes and bless- 
ings. 

At last the time came when this enchanted garment must 
be laid aside, and the things of every-day life once more 
undertaken. The afternoon was wearing away, and family 
hours are arbitrary. Ethel, sure that no tears in her eyes 
could be seen by those whose own were so full of the glory 
of love, came up the path to the fallen tree where they were 
sitting in the body, while their spirits wandered through 
the glades and groves of paradise. 

“ Ethel, come here!^^ said Lanfrey, holding out his hand. 
‘‘You have your new sister now. She has promised to 
marry me. How happy we shall all be together!^’ 

Ethel, the ready tears in her soft eyes again, and a kind 
of smiling death at her heart, stooped her head and kissed 
the happy face that seemed to ask her for forgiveness and 
acceptance in one. 

“ Will you have me as a sister asked Yetta, putting 
her arms round the frail little waist which made Ethel look 
so like a child. 

“Yes, indeed! indeed! with all my heart!^^ said Lady 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


257 

Janets eldest daughter, fervently. ^‘It is what I have 
been hoping all along!” 

You do not know, what a noble little creature it is!'’^ 
said Lanfrey to Yetta, looking at his sister fondly. “ She 
has always been my best friend at home, and has thrown in 
her lot with me in the pluckiest way!^^ 

“ She shall never feel that I have come between you,” 
said Yetta, with emotion. ‘‘You must let me love your 
brother just as you love him,^^ she added, to Ethel. “ We 
will be sisters in that! — and you have only one friend the 
more. ” ^ 

“ Thank you, dearie, returned Ethel, gently. 

“ And we will all live together,^ ^ said Lanfrey. 

“ Of course,^ ^ said Yetta. 

“ And I will be happy !^’ said poor little Ethel, burying 
her face on her brother’s neck not to let him see the pain 
she did her best to mask as pleasure. 

But time passed, and the inexorable feet dragged after 
them the hours; and they really must separate and go, each 
to his own place. Slowly and gently they walked down to 
the pool where Yetta’s little skiff lay moored, making a 
thousand promises to meet again — very soon —before Lan- 
frey’s departure for London. Meanwhile he was to ride 
over to Mock-Beggar to-morrow to see Paston and get his 
consent to the engagement. After that he would have tor 
try conclusions with his own people — when he would know 
his ground exactly, and what he had to hope and what to 
fear. He had no fear of Paston. For all his greater 
breadth of thought and sweeter strain of humanity, Lanfrey 
was a Clinton, and it did not seem to him as within the 
bounds of possibility that the rich iiobody should refuse 
the alliance of the great house — albeit of only a younger 
son of that house. That liis own father and mother should 
object — of that he was very certain. But he hoped, as 
lovers do, that argument would conquer prejudice, and his 
own love bear down their hate. And even if it should not, 
and he had to make his choice between them and his love 
— well! that choice was already made, and of this strong, 
tower not a brick would be changed. 

So the young people parted full of hope and happiness, 
and Yetta believed every word that Lanfrey said and that 
he wanted her to believe. It was the shortest way and the 
happiest, and saved a world of trouble! Silently she shot 


258 


PASTON CAEEW, 


down the stream, not singing but not glooming. She found 
the way longer than when she had rowed up in the full 
sunlight; and she noticed how much -more vivid were the 
autumn tints than they had seemed to be when she went 
up. Surely the season had leaped forward at a bound since 
the early day when she had gone up in the sunshine. 
Every stroke of her light oars brought her nearer to the 
earth and the dull reality of things, and took her further 
from the enchanted heaven where she had wandered with 
Lanfrey as her companion and her guide. Had she been 
asked she would have said that as she came up the meadows 
on either side the river had been full of spring flowers — 
now she saw only a few square-headed clumps of ragwort 
and coarse unlovely hog- weed; while in the hedges, the 
colors which had done duty for roses and honeysuckles 
showed themselves for what they were — dying leaves of 
briony and bramble flushed with the hectic crimson of 
decay. The splendor of the late summer still lingering 
over into autumn had faded away; a chill mist stole up 
from the river and crept with noiseless feet over the 
meadows and the woods. It was so chill that she shivered, 
for all her exercise and fresh young blood; and wished that 
she had had a fur cloak in which to wrap herself. She was 
glad when she got home, running up the garden slope just 
as the lights were beginning to shine palely through the 
windows. She was glad to be at home with her father, 
whom, she wondered now, had she deceived or wronged by 
her acceptance of Lanfrey without his knowledge and allow- 
ance? Things look so differently near at hand from what 
they do when far away; and the love which it seems so 
natural to grant when you are with the beloved — so im- 
perative, so holy, so wholesome to confess — becomes weak- 
ness, may be immorality, when you are face to face with the 
father whose word can grant all or refuse all at his pleas- 
ure. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE RESULT. 

How strange it was to Lanfrey to ride through the well- 
known grounds of Mock-Beggar, noting the changes which 
had been made since he was last here, and feeling that he 


MILLION'AIRE AND MISER. 


259 


was intrinsically a trespasser in the place which had been 
his home for almost all his life! His eyes took in all — 
here a tree gone and there a fence put up; here a flower 
bed turfed over as less costly to keep up, and there a clump 
of hardy shrubs where had been a delicate rose garden. It 
was painful in one sense to see all these alterations, for sen- 
timent, if a bad guide, is a necessary companion to man, 
and a sentimental pain is as true as a physical; but it was 
pleasant too to look at things which Yetta looked at, and 
see them as she saw them. It was no longer his old home; 
it was Yetta Oarew^s; and not his past, but her present, 
was that which most concerned him. 

As he rode up the long drive to the hall-door he saw 
Yetta and her father walking slowly to and fro on the path 
that skirted the lawn, on the side commanded by Paston^s 
study window. Paston did not allow of walking on the 
turf; it wore it away, he said, and it was damp. He made 
the path useful, according to its purpose, and here he gen- 
erally paced for half an hour or so with Yetta in the morn- 
ing, some time between breakfast and luncheon. It kept 
down the weeds; gave a better relish to the poor fare which 
was all that he allowed; and if it sharpened the appetite, 
that was only to the inconvenience of the possessor. The 
supplies were none the more elastic outside the “bread 
loaf,’^ which was not stinted. Of this, being stale, of 
coarse flour bought wholesale, home-made and dirt cheap, 
Paston was superbly generous, both to his daughter and the 
household en masse. And where the bread was practically 
unlimited, and the water of notable purity, he maintained 
that even Sybarites might be content. 

Walking thus to and fro on this path, speaking little and 
thinking much, they heard the sound of a horse^s hoofs 
cantering lightly up the drive. Yetta^’s soft face flamed, 
and Paston, glancing at her sharply, saw the color that 
mounted to her blush-rose face, as if her cheeks hid be- 
neath the skin the petals of a summer peony. 

“ Who is itr'’^ he asked, carelessly. 

“ I do not know,"*^ said Yetta, speaking by sight and not 
by knowledge; “ but — looking through the opening made 
by the archway in the hedge between the drive and the 
lawn, she added, as if she had just now made out by her 
eyes what her heart had told her from the first — “ it is Mr. 
Lanfrey Clinton 


260 


PASTOIf CAKEW, 


Paston^s heart ga^^e the bound of a hunter’s when the 
quarry he has stalked comes within range of its own accord. 

“Oh!” he said^ dryly, after a pause, so that his voice 
should not show his feelmg. “ To what do I owe the honor 
of this visit, my dear?” 

“ He will tell you himself,” said Yetta, ingenuously. 

Slie was not able to keep up a fiction for more than the 
first few minutes; and she could not withstand her father’s 
eyes when he looked at her as he did now— with that fish- 
like film over the contracted pupils, which yet saw and 
penetrated everything. 

“ Ah! you know already, I see,” was his reply; and as 
he spoke, Lanfrey came unceremoniously through the arch- 
way and walked up to where they stood, Paston not advanc- 
ing so much as by one inch to meet him. 

Clear as the light in the sky Paston saw the truth. His 
daughter’s consciousness, her crimson blush, her timidity 
and constraint, yet also that something else which be- 
tokened joy — Lanfrey confident, resolute, with that mascu- 
line self-respect in his love which makes a man twice the 
man he was before — he knew the whole chapter before it 
was repeated, and saw, as he had seen more than once of 
late, the glory of his aiDproaching triumph, the gliding on 
of that golden light in which he was soon to stand as a god 
in his splendor. Lanfrey was the younger son, truly; but 
he was a Clinton; and it was a Clinton who was about to 
come to his knees and sue for a grace which he, Paston 
Carew, the housekeeper’s son, could grant or withhold at 
his pleasure. His daughter did not count in this rapid 
summing-up of his position. It was only his own pride of 
which he was conscious — only the first touches of his tri- 
umph. 

“ Mr. Carew, may I speak a few words to you?” said 
Lanfrey, after the first greetings were over. 

“At your pleasure, sir,” said Paston, stiffly. “Leave 
us, Yetta; or shall we go into the house?” he asked of 
Lanfrey. 

“ Let us stay here,” said Lanfrey, quickly. 

He wanted the enforced restraint of the windows, which 
could see, if not hear. Now that he had come face to face 
with his fate, he did not feel so confident as half an hour 
ago. ^ Paston Carew was not exactly the man to manipu- 
late at pleasure, and Yetta was too great a prize to be fiung 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


261 


at the head, of the first comer; and the defiance which the 
base-born had hurled in the teeth of them, the Clintons, 
fr'Din the first, seemed to stand out more and more from 
aihong the flattering hopes in which he had cradled his 
soul, and to render the issue of this interview more and 
more doubtful. But he had embarked his all on the sea, 
and must steer to his port whatever the storms to be en- 
countered. 

‘‘ I have come tp ask you for the greatest gift you have 
to bestow, said Lanfrey, when they were alone, still walk- 
ing up and down the path where Paston and Yetta had been 
walking before. 

“ Yes?^^ said Paston. 

I love your daughter. Will you give her to me?^^ 

“ You love my daughter, repeated Paston. “ Your 
pretensions to marriage are founded on — what?^ ' 

“ My love,'’^ said Lanfrey. 

“ That is a very charming, but not a quite solid basis, 
answered Paston. It is the usual plea put forward, but 
that does not make it the more solid. Love does not do all 
things; it does not pay the rent, nor satisfy the baker. 

“ It does much, if not all,^^ returned Lanfrey; “ and at 
least I am a gentleman. 

By birth? yes, by birth,^^ said Paston. You are a 
gentleman by birth, I grant it; a Clinton — full blood. 

And I shall have a high place in my profession,-’-’ con- 
tinued the young man. “ I shall not be ashamed to ask 
any woman to bear my name.^^ 

Hypothetical so far, that place, is it not?’^ said Pas- 
ton. “ You are only just called to the Bar, and have not 
yet held a brief. There are a few steps yet between you 
and the woolsack — even between you and a recognized 
junior — not to speak of silk!^^ 

‘‘ JSTo younger son has his fortune in his hands at twenty- 
five,^^ said Lanfrey; ‘‘ he has the foundations only.-’-’ 

‘‘ Very true,” said Paston. Ergo, no younger son has 
the right to ask a girl in marriage. I object to long en- 
gagements; and by your own consent, you, a young fellow 
with all your way to make, must needs be engaged for years 
before you can hope to marry. But perhaps you think that 
I have money?” he added, speaking very slowly and delib- 
erately, his eyes fixed on Lanfrey’ s face, where the softer 
touch of love vainly struggled against the haughty Clinton 


262 


PASTON CAKEW, 


flush. ‘‘ Yetta is an only child. You argue that I shall 
be able to supply the income you have not, and set you up 
in your housekeeping. You are mistaken, Mr. Clinton. 
It was a natural thought, perhaps — how his thin lip 
curled and lifted itself up over the sharp white pointed 
fang at the side as he spoke! — “ but it is a vain one. I 
have not a farthing to give you during my life-time. What 
little I may have to leave, when I die, will naturally go to 
my daughter — if she does not displease, me by a foolish 
marriage, say. But for your housekeeping now, or at any 
time before my death, you must. not look to me.^^ 

“ Your money never formed part of my calculations,^^ 
said Lanfrey, proudly. ‘‘ I love your daughter, and am 
ready to take her without a farthing. Her dowry — her 
expectations — are matters of supreme indifference to me. 
We Clintons are men enough to provide for our own 
wives. 

‘‘ Indeed, now, that is odd!^^ said Paston. ‘‘ You would 
marry as the birds dor — on the faith of providential worms 
and flies? But even birds build their nests before they lay 
their eggs. Are you less provident than the sparrows? — or 
do you like the way the cuckoos get over the difficulty 

I do not ask to be married now at once. I want only 
your sanction to the engagement, said Lanfrey, subduing 
his rising anger like a hero. 

‘‘ Why should I sanction it?^’ returned Paston. ‘‘ What 
advantages do you offer me? You are a Clinton certainly; 
but you are the younger son of the house, and my daughter 
in marrying you would be marrying a substantial nobody. 
Por all that you may be the hypothetical lord chancellor, 
you are now nothing but a professional chrysalis. You 
have not a half-penny of private fortune; you will not in- 
herit the estate; and you ask me for my only daughter, 
one of the most beautiful girls in the county, and reputed 
the richest heiress. This last clause is erroneous, I admit. 
Still she is so reputed, which counts in the list of her ad- 
vantages. What have you to offer in return? A young 
man^s problematical constancy; an undesignated future; 
and the name of Clinton — not specially sweet-sounding to 
me, as you may imagine. 

“ My love and my character go for something, said 
Lanfrey. 

“ With a father solicitous to place his child superbly?— 


MILLION'AIRE AND MISER. 


263 


scarcely/^ said Paston, dryly. “ AVe will not talk more of 
this proposal at present, Mr. Clinton. It does not offer 
such material advantages as would make me consent to 
a long and undated engagement. Still, I do not wish to 
decide entirely for my daughter. Her own heart must have 
its say. So let things be. It is not my idea of what my 
daughter should do — but let things stand. 

‘‘ Then you refuse me, sir?’^ said Lanfrey. 

The trial to his pride all through this interview had been 
very severe. Paston meant that it should be. 

“ Did I say so?” said Paston, coldly. “ I said let it be 
— let things stand over — ^be patient and wait. Your impa- 
tience, young man, would seem to point to a disappoint- 
ment more material than mere affection.” 

“ How can you — how dare you — ” began Lanfrey, vehe- 
mently. 

Paston put his head a little on one side, and narrowed his 
eyes to a line, like a oak’s. 

‘‘ That touched you, I see,^^ he said, in his driest and 
coldest way. ‘‘Well, let that pass! I have neither ac- 
cepted your proposals, Mr. Clinton, nor refused them. I 
must know more before I take the decisive step either way. 
I hold your brief in reserve. ” 

“ Your daughter loves me,” said Lanfrey. 

“ What can a girl like that know of love?” he answered, 
scornfully. “ It is the way they all go, but how few hold 
on! A first young fancy is not enough for me; and again 
I say — let things stand over.” 

How it pleased him to see the agony on that fine young 
face, and to know it was a Clinton he was thus torturing! 

“ Have your daughter's wishes no influence?” asked 
Lanfrey. 

Again Paston put his head a little on one side, and nar- 
rowed his eyes to a mere line. 

“ Hone whatever,” he said, deliberately. “ I know what 
is best for her, and I do what is for her good. If she dis- 
likes the medicine, she has to take it all the same. Here- 
after, when she is cured, she will thank me. ” 

“ At least you will sanction my writing to her when I am 
away?” pleaded Lanfrey. 

Paston raised his eyes with a look of fictitious surprise; 
then dropped them, and for a moment kept silent. 

“What good can come of your writing?” he asked. 


2U 


PASTOK CAKEW, 


“ You are not engaged, and well-brought-up girls do not 
write to young men to whom they are not affianced. 

‘‘ AY ill you not be moved to grant anything, Mr. Carew?'’^ 
entreated Lanfrey. ‘‘AVhat guarantee do you want? 
AY hat can I say that shall convince you?^^ 

Paston smiled. He liked that tone of entreaty. It wa& 
what he had foreseen in his dreams when he had imagined 
the supplication of Maurice, the heir of the Great House, 
and had pictured the agony he would inflict. 

‘‘ Nothing,^ ^ he answered. ‘‘I have my own views on 
this matter. But I do not forbid, though I do not allow. 
I hold myself and the future in reserve. This is my posi- 
tion, and I am not to be turned from it."*^ 

‘‘ And her sorrow? — the pain of this terrible suspense ?^‘^ 
said Lanfrey. 

“ She is a good girl,^^ replied Yetta^s father, quietly. 
‘‘ She will not suffer herself to go into those tornadoes of 
passion — those tempests of sorrow — which it pleases lovers 
to believe the only fitting expressions of disappointment. 
I have her in hand. She will follow my lead. She will 
not be unhappy; and she will hold herself in suspense, if 
such is my will.'’^ 

There you are mistaken,^ ^ cried Lanfrey. 

Paston smiled. 

“ You think so? I know I am not,^^ he answered. “ Is 
this interview at an end, Mr. Clinton ?^^ he then said, stop- 
ping in his walk and facing his victim. “ AYe have said all 
we have to say, I think — threshed out the straw and win- 
nowed the chaff, and have come back to our original start- 
ing-point.'*^ Then, for his last blow, he said: “Had it 
been your brother, the heir, I might have given a different 
answer. Clinton is a fine place. It would be an act of 
poetical justice to bestow it on my daughter. 

“ Having heard me to-day, you can scarcely favor my 
brother's pretensions,^'* said Lanfrey, hotly. 

Paston looked like a living Pasht. 

“ Ho?^^ he said. “ I do not quite see it. 

“ You would make two brothers rivals?^^ 

“ AYhy not, if the one suited my views better than the 
other ?^'* 

“ And your daughter, Mr. Carew?^^ 

“ AYould make better business with the elder than the 
younger, he answered, with quiet scorn. 


MILLIONAIKE AND MISER. 265 

‘‘ At least let me see your daughter before I leave/^ said 
Lanfrey. 

Falling as he was, step by step, he felt like one clutching 
at straws for his support. 

“ Yes,^"' said Paston, after a pause; “ you may see her — 
in my presence. ^ 

It was giving pain to the only creature he loved, but it 
was a. solace to his own pride and hate; and of the two he 
preferred the latter. 

They went into the house, and Paston called Yetta in his 
clear and carrying voice, which, though it was not un- 
melodious, somehow reminded one of a soaker’s hiss. 

She came down from her little boudoir upstairs where she 
always lived when not with her father, and whence she had 
seen, but not heard, the intervieAV in the garden. She was 
pale, anxious, her face full of dumb inquiry and unspoken 
pain. 

‘‘ Your father will not let us be engaged, said Lanfrey, 
before Paston could speak. “ But I ask you now in his 
presence, will you be faithful to your promise and our 
love?^'’ 

Yetta looked at her father, whose inscrutable face told 
her nothing. He wanted to hear her, unbiased — to see for 
himself how deep the poison had gone. 

‘‘ Yes,"’"’ she said, laying her hand in Lanfrey^’s, out- 
stretched to receive it, “I will be faithful.’"’ 

Against my will?” asked Paston, quickly. 

I would not marry against your will, dearest father,” 
she answered; ‘‘ but I Avould be faithful to my vow all the 
same. And I will marry no one else — no one but — Lanfrey 
Clinton.” 

‘‘A passive rebellion, not active,” he said, letting his 
eyes blaze as if with anger for a moment, then filling them 
with love and sorrow and entreaty; ‘‘ atid, because passive, 
masquerading itself as obedience. Have I educated you 
for this, Yetta?” 

‘‘ Oh, father, do not look at me like that!” she cried. 

You know that I love you better than my own life. But 
I love him too!” she added, simply; ‘‘ and I could not be 
false to him any more than to you.” 

^\nd if you have to choose between us in the end — ^not 
now, but in the end?” he said. “ I foresee; I do not de- 
termine. That will be the way things will take.”. 


266 


PASTOK CAEEW, 


“ Let us wait for that time/^ said Lanfrey. You 
yourself said this, sir — let us wait/^ 

So be it/’ answered Pasfcon. “ On your own head be 
your willful doom. 

“No doom can come where we have love and faith/ ^ 
said Lanfrey, fervently. “ Be faithful, oh, my darling! and 
we shall conquer everything by time. Only be faithful and 
true to your word and to me!^'’ 

“I will,"" said Yetta, solemnly. “If I never see you 
again I will be faithful to my word, and you can count on 
me to the day of my death. 

“Foolish child!"" said Pasfcon, pityingly. “Happily 
lovers" vows are not final, and absence is a famous solv- 
ent!"" 

And with this as the final word they had to be content. 
Yetfca had to keep her soul in patient trust, and Lanfrey 
had to leave with death and life together in his heart. All 
things were against them — all, save their love. The forces 
of life were their foes, and their sole support was truth and 
each other. 

At home the ordeal was shorter, sharper, more decisive. 
When Lanfrey told his people what he had done, he dug 
his own grave, at least for the time, and was made dead to 
the family love. He was repudiated and ostracized. He 
had sinned against the Clinton code of honor, and he was 
held unworthy to take his place with the rest. Grace was 
given him only for the few days yet remaining of his cov- 
enanted stay, when he must hold himself as under a ban 
until purged of his contempt. Thus the love which had 
sprung up with the fiowers seemed destined to follow the 
dim fortunes of the d3dng season and the blighted days — 
having to prove its own vitality and how far it could resist 
the fatal influences surrounding it. The golden thread so 
swiftly spun was as abruptly held, and if not cut short, it 
was only because it was too strong and too complete. 

That night Paston, in a dusky whirlwind of superstitious 
desire and gratified pride, seated at his table, his lean brown 
hands on Planchette, cried out aloud to the spirits which 
ever held him company: “ Mother! wife! tell me — shall I 
see my desire on mine enemy?"" To which his wooden Iris 
wrote, in a bold firm hand all across the paper, “ Yes — yes 
— yes!"" 


MILLIOKAIKE AND MISEK. 


267 


CHAPTER XXX. 

IN, PAIN AND PEEIL. 

Most of ns take what we choose to call a melancholy 
pleasure in making ourselves needlessly unhappy. We keep 
old love-letters, breathing of our worth, that we may again 
feel the heart-break of disillusion when our hero proved 
himself a cad and jilted us for Jemima, or that we may 
mourn afresh for our loss when her high-born kinsmen 
bore away our Annabel Lee. We go back to the scene of 
departed joys that we may become Pessimists by comparing 
the radiant Then with the mouniful Now, mid mow down 
as with a scythe all the humbler growth of satisfaction and 
mild rejoicing which had begun to make the barren pastures 
tolerably green again. We turn the knife in our wound, 
that we may shrink anew under the smart which the benef- 
icent salve of Time had soothed; and imitating the Flagel- 
lants, who scourge their own backs as one of the grim pas- 
times of fanaticism, we agonize our memory for no earthly 
good save such as lies in the pleasure of pain — as if resigna- 
tion to the inevitable were the sin of cowardice, and phys- 
ical weeping brought spiritual cleansing. We surround 
ourselves with fire, then sting ourselves like scorpions; and 
when we writhe under our self-inflicted anguish we call on 
Heaven to mitigate our pain and on earth to pity it, think- 
ing ourselves hardly treated if the Dread Powers do not 
work the miracle of mental healing in our favor, and if our 
fellow-men do not sympathize with our voluntary suffer- 
ings — and in sympathizing, share. 

This is the folly common to us all — the folly which we 
dignify by the name of sentiment or constancy. But it is 
only one of the many which flourish in this jungle of mo- 
tives and desires we call concretely human nature; and to 
wait for wisdom is to wait for the millennium, which is 
always promised and never comes. 

Acting then on this absurd desire to give herself unneces- 
sary pain, Yetta one day went back to the old haunt of 
Heron^s Pool; though she knew that she could not meet 
Lanfrey, who was in London, and sure that she should not 
meet Ethel, who, not expecting her, would certainly not be 


268 


PASTON" CAKEW, 


there. All the same, the morbid instinct which carries the 
loving to the graves of the lost led her to visil;, in the pal- 
lor of its autumnal decay, the place where the flushed 
summer had first opened the golden gates of youth's fairest 
paradise. 

She rowed up the river, where the* quiet pools, which had 
been fringed with blue lobelia, or starred with sweet-scent- 
ed water-anemones, or glorified with gold and silver water- 
lilies, were now covered with a green unwholesome slime. 
The cold dank fog lying like a filmy shroud on the fields 
was repeat^ed in her eyes, where a gathering mist, the pre- 
cursor of tears, dimmed all she saw. Still the lover's mor- 
bid desire to turn that knife drew her like a magnet; and 
she rowed on till she came to the Pool, lying blank, ^desert- 
ed, silent, beneath the unplumed branches of the trees. 
The dying leaves fluttered to their fall, and covered the 
surface of the water with a rotting, many-colored pall; the 
silence of the wood was unbroken by song of bird or hum 
of bee; all flowers had faded; all fragrance was spent; all 
life and light had passed. It was solitude and death; and 
her heart beat the symphony of sorrow to the sad requiem 
of the time. 

She sat in her little skiff, holding the oars which she had 
crossed over her lap; and then, betrayed by the absolute 
stillness to an imprudence she ought not to have committed, 
she drew her light boat up to the Clinton side and stepped 
out on to the forbidden land. She wanted to walk up the 
path to the park stile, that she might quarter the ground 
hallowed to her by love, and dream back over the days of 
departed glory. And this time she did not deceive herself. 
To see the house where Lanfrey lived — to go up the wood- 
road where she had walked with him and Love together, 
and come to the final knowledge of herself — to people the 
solitude with his beloved image and the stillness with the 
echoes of his voice — ^yes, that was why she broke all the 
rules she ought to have observed, and landed on the Clin- 
ton side of the Pool without the sanction of a Clinton's in- 
vitation. 

She fastened her light boat and went on, little knowing 
who was silently walking at a short distance from her in the 
parallel path, going toward that converging point which 
should bring them together. Hidden behind a huge old 
elm, he had seen her float into the Pool — ^had watched her 


MILLION'AIEE AND MISER. 


269 


brooding hesitancy — then her imprudent landing; and now 
he stole silently after her, as it might have been a lion pac- 
ing noiselessly down to the fountain where an antelope was 
drinking. Thinking of nothing but the past and conscious 
only of her loss, Yetta did not heed the careful footfall 
which yet, for all its care, every now and then broke the 
scattered twigs and crushed the dry leaves, but went slowly 
up the road, till she came to the point where the two paths 
ran into one; and then she heard the sudden heavy tramp 
of a many’s commanding stride, and Maurice stood before 
her, as if he had sprung from the earth. 

She started, ■ and with difficulty suppressed a scream. 
He lifted his hat and offered his hand, a light in his eyes 
that was too fierce for pleasure, a smile round his lips that 
was too cynical for welcome. 

‘‘ Evidently the age of miracles has not yet passed, he 
said, in a bantering manner that made Yetta wince. “ For 
what but a miracle can have brought Miss Oarew so far 
from home, and into our preserves?^'’ 

‘‘ Folly, said Yetta, with an uneasy laugh. 

He looked into her face with a famiiiar expression in his 
own, by no means reassuring. 

‘‘ Folly: — and curiosity he asked. 

“ Yes/’ she answered. 

Curiosity to see what? — 'the pheasants or the rabbits? 
And perhaps be shot by mistake. Such things have been.’^ 

Perhaps both,^’ said Yetta. 

It must be the pheasants or the rabbits, for my brother 
is in London,’’^ he returned, with a mocking little laugh. 

Did you know that? I suppose you did. 

“ Yes,^’ said Yetta, her cheeks crimsoning. 

‘‘And the empty shell is better than nothing?’’ he add- 
ed, satirically. 

Yetta did not answer. She could not confess, and she 
would not deny. To have confessed would have been too 
bold; to have denied would have been to be false to her 
love; and falseness made no more part of her character 
than boldness. 

“Lanfrey gave us the history of his late proceedings,” 
continued Maurice, contemptuously. “ My dear girl, how 
could you be so unwise as to accept a proposal from a 
younger brother? What has Lanfrey to offer you besides 
his name? which, however, as a name, I grant you, any 


*270 


PASTOlSr CAREW, 


woman in England might be proud to bear. But what is a 
name without money or laud, and with all the way to make 
in a man's profession? It is like a silver clasp with noth- 
ing to fasten. You have been very foolish, believe me. 
He was rash and you were silly— a precious combination." 

I do not see your right to take me to task," said 
Y^etta, coldly. 

Every right in the world," he answered, authorita- 
tively. “After my father I am the Head of the House; 
and we men of family, my dear Miss Carew, have a certain 
discipline among ourselves which vous autres do not know. " 

“ 1 should have thought a man like your brother was 
strong enough to take his own line and keep it," she said, 
passing by the impertinenoe. 

“In spite of family? — of position?" 

“ Yes, in spite of anything," she answered. 

“ Rebel to that extent?" he laughed, harshly. “ What 
an odd mixture! To look at, a young princess, yet with no 
more knowledge of the graces of superior condition, no 
more perception of the discipline pertaining to gentle birth, 
than the lowest peasant in the meanest hovel!" 

“ Captain Clinton!" said Yetta, flashing into hot dis- 
pleasure, “ you take too much on yourself!" 

“ Think so? I do not. You would be all the better, 
believe me, for a pilot among social shallows where cooler 
heads than yours have made shipwreck. I will be that 
pilot, my beautiful trespasser; and as a beginning, I warn 
you off my brother. Your pretty little love poem will not 
scan; and you will only make a mess of everything." 

Yetta was silent. There surged through her brain a con- 
fusion of thought that was like a torrent wherein she was 
lost. Indignation at Captain Clinton's familiarity and in- 
solence, fear lest what he said should be true, doubt 
whether this were not one of the trials to her faith which 
Lanfrey had made her promise to withstand, and a dim 
sense of personal fear at finding herself here alone with this 
masterful, rude, insulting man, made her dumb, choked 
with emotion, and unable to clear her thoughts for a fitting 
reply. 

“ I have more to say against this absurd marriage," con- 
tinued Maurice; “you need not curl your short upper lip 
like that! Lips like yours were made," he was going to 
say, “to be kissed," but the transparent purity of her 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 271 

bearing, and the scared look of her limpid eyes, conquered 
his coarser impulse, and he substituted “ to smile, and not 
to sneer. And do not frown — you will get wrinkles if you 
do; and do not shrink as if I were a toad — ^you make un- 
graceful lines, which is a pity.^'’ 

“You are too insufferably insolent!’^ said Yetta, fear 
giving place to sudden wrath as impotent as it was fiery. 

“ Am I? Now I think I am honest for the one part and 
complimentary for the other,^^ said Maurice. “At all 
events, I think I am paying you a compliment when I tell 
you that I am ready to offer you my name if you will break 
off this silly little affair with my brother. 

^ “ Captain Olinton!^^ said Yetta, holding her head very 
high, and in her turn frowning. “ Do you know what 
you are saying?’^ 

“ Eather,^^ he half laughed; then becoming serious, and 
throwing aside his insolence, he went on to say: “ If my 
brother loves you. Miss Carew, so do I. And I have rights 
which he has not. I have a present position as the eldest, 
and advantages as the heir, which he never will have. 
”\Vhat girl could refuse Clinton Hall? You see I support 
my claim mainly on my circumstances, which you must 
admit is modest. If you marry me, you marry the future 
head of the first family in Fellshire, and so place yourself 
on the topmost rung of the social ladder. You will thus 
stop the mouths of the gossips once and forever. 

“ I will not listen to you, said Yetta. “It is a sin; 
and what have gossips to say of me?^^ she added. “ While 
my father lives and protects me, who can speak? — and 
what?^^ 

‘ ‘ Poor innocent V* ejaculated Maurice. “ But if I tell you 
they do speak, and that only such a marriage as this I now 
offer you will stop their mouths, and will reinstate both 
you and your father?^ ^ 

I should choose my husband for himself, not his ad- 
yantages,^"’ said Yetta, feeling that she must be brave 
enough to testify, painful as it was. 

“ Which means that between me and my brother — I 
with Clinton, and he with nothing but a few unworkable 
fads — ^you will choose him?^^ asked Maurice, with a ven- 
omous flush. 

“I deny your right to ask me that question, said Y'^etta. 


272 


PASTON CAREW, 


“And. T intend to have the answer/^ said Maurice. 
“ Between me and my brother — ^you like him besfcr^^ 

“ Yes/^ she answered^ after a pause, with as much pain 
as directness. “ Your brother has always been my friend. 

“ And not 

‘‘No; never from the first/ ^ she answered, scornfully. 

“That shows how little discernment you have,^'’ said 
Maurice, as coolly as if he were noting her virtues. “ I 
have admired you as much as my brother from the first day 
we met; but I have more delicacy, more self-control, more 
judgment than he, and have known how to wait. He has 
forced the running, which is a doubtful compliment to any 
woman. But then he was always weak and childish.'’^ 

“ This is enough said Yetta, turning to go back; but 
Maurice laid his hand on her arm. 

“ No, not yetr-’ he said. “ You have ventured into for- 
bidden ground, and now you have to wait my pleasure. 

“lam surely free to go back when I will!^^ said Y'etta. 

“ Certainly not,-’"’ was his answer. “ You have come off 
the neutral lines into the enemy Y camp, and you are my 
prisoner for so long as I choose to hold you. 

He looked so cruel while he laughed — the place was so 
lonely, and the whole thing so embarrassing — so terrifying 
even — that again Yetta was frightened. And her face, 
which showed all her emotions as in a glass, showed this 
fear among the rest. 

He laughed again. He liked to feel that he had at least 
so much power. If he could not bend her to his love, he 
could impress her by his strength. He, one of the men 
with whom “ women did not count, felt that to frighten 
her was better than to be met with the recalcitration of in- 
dependence — the defiance of indifference. 

“I have more to say,^’ he continued, speaking very 
abruptly and with curious harshness — curious in a man j3ro- 
fessing to love and desiring to win. “ If you marry Lan- 
frey, remember that you enter our family contre-cceur, and 
that none of us will welcome you. You are proud. Will 
you consent to come among people who do not want you, 
and who will repudiate you?"’"’ 

“ And you who have just now pretended to like me on 
your own account said Yetta, with mixed indignation 
and surprise. 

“That is another matter,^ ^ he said. “If you married 


MlLLIOiTAlRE Ais^D AlISER. 


273 


me, we should all welcome you. You do not seem able to 
judge between the elder son and the younger,^ Mie added. 
“ How should you, indeed! You have been born without 
traditions and beyond the pale.^^ 

“ I will not listen to you any longer,'’^ said Y^etta, draw- 
ing herself away, and facing her tormentor. “ 1 do not 
see what object you can have in insulting me. Captain Clin- 
ton. But whatever it may be, I refuse to submit to it any 
longer. Let me pass. I am going back.^^ 

“ Softly! softly! I have still more to say about you and 
that foolish boy you have bewitchii,^^ said Maurice. ‘‘ I 
want to make it clear to you that you will be both selfish 
and unwomanly if you marry him against our will. \Ye 
shall all Teject him as a dishonor to our name and race. 
Will you be justified, do you think, in taking a man from 
his family and creating a division which will never be got 
over? Do father and mother and social duties count for 
nothing in your code? Among us they are all-powerful. 
But then we are gentry. ^ ^ 

“ How insolent you areT' said Y^etta, bitterly. “What 
have I done to deserve your hatred?^ ^ 

“ Hatred I he echoed, with a strange accent, standing 
for a moment silent, while he looked at her as if he would 
look her through. Then, as if by a tremendous effort over 
himself, he dropped his eyes, still keeping silent. After a 
moment he looked at her again. “ You think I hate you?'’^ 
he said, in a softer manner than he had yet shown. “ I 
love you! I love you with all my heart and soul!^^ 

“ HushMiushl'^ cried YYtta, in as much terror as revul- 
sion. “ Y"ou must not say that to me, Captain Clinton! 
It is a sin — a sin!^^ she repeated. 

“ Because you love my brother ?^^ 

She turned away; then held herself firmly, and looked as 
straightly at him as he still looked at her. It was a torture 
to her. She would have rather suffered any amount of 
physical pain than undergo this mental trial of bold confes- 
sion. But it had to be done. Bor pride, self-protection, 
loyalty, truth, it must be said. 

‘“Yes,"' she answered, “because I love your brother, 
and he loves me. " 

Two impulses raged in Maurice, like storms that meet 
and devastate the earth. He had the wildest desire to bend 
back that lovely head and kiss the front of the throat — • 


274 


PASTON CAREW, 


there where the lion might have bitten the antelope; to tell 
her that he loved her — he loved her — and would kill her 
rather than that she should marry another, brother or no. 
Then he wanted to crush her with the humiliation of her 
father’s birth; proclaim trumpet-tongued the shameful 
secret of which every one now at Beaton Brows knew that 
she was ignorant. He wanted to see her pure face flush for 
shame; to ruin forever the grave and loving innocence of 
her mind. He wanted to revenge himself, and to humble 
her. But the grace of the gentleman conquered in the 
struggle, and he put down both mad passions with an effort 
as tremendous as that of Hercules when he strangled the 
Hemsean lion and subdued the wild-b'oar of Erymanthus. 
She was too helpless and too lovely, too pure and too brave ! 
He would respect her, cost what it might— and it did cost 
him something — even more than he could have believed or 
she could have understood. 

‘‘ I am sorry,” he said, after a long pause. If Yetta 
could have read the black thoughts which had filled that 
pause with its baleful torrent, and made that silence so tem- 
pestuous! ‘‘ You will do more harm than you know of if 
you persist in marrying my brother. My father and 
mother will never consent, and you will take Lanfrey from 
us all. You will expose him to unimaginable humiliation^ 
and y ou will give me life-long misery. How can you marry 
one brother when the other loves you as I love you? There 
is the sin, if you will ! The only way to make it not a sin 
will be for me to yield my place, and make my younger 
brother the heir. Will you found your marriage on my 
ruin? You can scarcely put this down to my hatred for 
you! But now I will leave you. Think of what I have 
said, and forgive me if I have hurt you. You have hurt 
me more. Good-bye, and God bless you!” 

He offered his hand, and Yetta, surprised into yielding 
by the grave and quiet tone, the tenderness even of his 
manner, gave him hers. He took it and raised it to his 
lips. Then the wild, mad impulse he had had before con- 
quered him like a flood let loose,* and turning back her 
sleeve, he ran his lips roughly along the slender scar still 
remaining of her scratch. 

Terrified and revolted, Yetta shrieked so that the woods 
rang with her voice, and Maurice, with a mental oath curs- 
ing his own folly, saying, “ Forgive me, I was mad! For- 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


275 


give me ! Believe that I love you, and that I respect you, 
slanted off among the trees, as a man^s hoarse voice shout- 
ed, “ Hi, hi! What^s up there?^^ and Jim Sherwood, 
clambering over the stile, came clattering down the path. 

When Jim came to where Yetta was standing alone, pale 
and terrified, aghast and revolted, he took off his rough 
cap and stood bare-headed in her presence, as he had stood 
once before. 

What has skeered you, miss?^^ he asked. ‘‘Was it a 
man? Let me catch hold on him, and 1^11 warrant he’ll 
soon have enough of my mark. Who was he? There’s no 
one about as I knows of but our young captain yonder, 
and he’s vagaring somewhere here.” 

“ I do not know who it was. Never mind; I was only 
frightened,” Yetta stammered. 

“ That’s plain to see; but you weren’t frightened belike 
of a shadow,” said Jim, with unconscious irony. “ I wish 
you’d tell me which way he went, miss,” he continued, 
making a step as if to go through the wood by the diverg- 
ing path. 

Yetta caught hold of his arm. “ Do not leave me. Stay 
with me. Don’t go away,” she said, possessed equally by 
the fear of being left alone and the fear of Maurice Clin- 
ton’s being found. 

Her soft touch and claim for protection affected Jim so 
powerfully that for a moment he was. as if drunk and 
dazed. He felt as Ehaicos might have felt when the 
Hamadryad sought his grace; as Cymon when Iphigenia first 
looked at him kindly; as any man of low mortality to whom 
some divine woman bent, either to bestow her favor or be- 
seech his care. 

“ No fear, miss,” he said, after a moment’s silence, 
when, however, it seemed to him that he had said, “ God 
bless her! God bless her!” so loud that the whole wood 
would hear. “ You come along o’ me, and no harm shall 
happen you. Ketch hold o’ my arm, and you’re as safe as 
in a church. Come to my cottage near by,” he then said, 
as by a sudden inspiration. “ Get yourself righted a bit, 
and then I’ll see you to the far end safe enough. ” 

“ Thank you,” said Yetta. “ Yes, I will. ” 

On which Jim led her to the sacred stile, and so crossed 
over to the other side, and to his cottage not far off. 

It was a rash thing to do, even rasher than Yetta’s land- 


276 


PASTOIS^ CAREW, 


ing on the Clinton side of the Pool; but it was an impulse 
which embodied his whole life. It was Patty^s Angel that 
he took into his house, and carried into the presence of that 
Lost Ideal — Patty’s purified self and translated past. All 
the dim unspoken poetry of the man’s mind and nature 
was working in him like the ferment of sweet honey, as he 
led this gracious creature into the presence of her life’s 
original source. Grandmother and granddaughter brought 
face to face, neither knowing the other nor dreaming of the 
tie betvveen them — Yetta, to the old man’s fancy, what 
Patty was before the splendor of her shame seduced her — 
the mirror wherein this wreck of time and sin might see 
her perfected self — the Higher Self which each of us car- 
ries about with us, hidden from sight but revealed to con- 
science, and which we either kill by violence, starve by 
neglect, or nourish into strength and spiritual dominion. 

If Patty herself had puzzled French, and her eyes had 
recalled his mother’s — as they had recalled his lost love’s 
more than fifty years ago to Maurice — of what and whom 
did the girl remind the woman? Some one she had seen in 
days gone by, and whom her memory could not now verify, 
seemed to look out from her face. Broken lights of re- 
membrance and suggestion shone in her eyes and quivered 
in her smile, and once^ when Yetta raised her hand and 
pushed back her hair, there came as a living picture before 
Patty, who watched her with a sense of fear mingled with 
her interest, the memory of that night when the handsome 
young gentleman from the grand place further south had 
spoken to her of love in the moonlight at Monkthwaite, and 
she had dallied with the question, and put it by — till to- 
morrow. Why should she have thought of that now? Why 
did the action of this strange young lady’s hand, putting 
back her hair, remind her of her dead master and un wedded 
husband ? 

On a word from Jim, who did not leave the women 
together, as might have seemed more natural and even 
more respectful, Patty brought the girl water to wash her 
pale face clear of the clammy dews that were still on it; 
and when she took off her hat and brushed back her hair 
with her hands, stirred by a sense of love and reverence, 
yet of familiar association too, the old woman laid her with- 
ered hand reverently and caresssingly on the golden mass 
shining like embodied sunlight above the fiower-like face. 


MILLIOKAIEE AND MISER. 


277 


‘‘ God bless thee, honey she said, in a low voice. 

Yetta liked both the action and the homely melody of 
the phrase. 

“ Thank yon,^^ she answered, with her sweetest smile. 

Patty put her finger up to her lip as some do when puz- 
zled and considering. 

Who is it?^^ she said, speaking to herself. “ She looks 
like some one — who is it?’^ 

But now that Jim had satisfied his sentiment about these 
two women, he began to be uneasy lest a chance word from 
Yetta, or an inditferent question from Patty, might break 
down the flimsy wall of secrecy between them — that wall 
which was no thicker than a sheet of tissue-paper which a 
child^s little finger can tear. 

‘‘ You had best be going, miss, now,^^ he said to Yetta. 
“ The days draw in mighty quick, and you^’d best set out. 
ITl see you safe off the premises and a bit down the river; 
but if youTl be guided by me, youTl be going. 

‘‘ Yes, I will, thank you,^^ said Yetta, turning to take 
leave of Mrs. Richard. ‘ “ Thank you for all your kind- 
ness, Mrs. Sherwood, she said, thinking she was the old 
gamekeeper^s wife, and not knowing the story of the sister. 

A very little was sufficient to demoralize' the poor deterio- 
rated brain and entangled memories, and Patty looked at 
Jim appealingly. Was she to own herself Mrs. Sherwood? 
Was she really Mrs. Sherwood? Then she remembered. 

‘‘ No, my dear,^'’ she said, with a feeble laugh, “lam 
not Jimp’s wife; I am Mrs. Richard now, and I was Mis- 
tress Patty. 

“ Shut up, mother,^^ said Jim, roughly. “ If you once 
begin your maundering there '’s never an end to it. Come, 
miss, lePs be going,^^ he added rather imperatively to 
Yetta. 

“ DonT mind him, honey,^^ said Patty, in an aside. 
“ He^s a good fellow, is Jim, but what I call as rude as a 
bear at times. Here she laughed in her feeble, half-im- 
becile way, then added, with a flash of her old grand man- 
ner: “ He was very different when I was Mistress Patty up 
at the great Hall yonder!"'’ 

Jim ground his teeth and swore between them audibly; 
but as the words told Yetta nothing, she let them piass 
almost unheeded; and only afterward remembered and 
pondered over them. She shook hands with the old 


278 


PASTON- CAREW, 


woman, and again thanked her; and not liking to give 
money in acknowledgment of all this hearty service, she 
stooped her gracious head and kissed the withered face held 
up to her. After which she turned away, and Jim felt 
that he should like to kneel to her and tell her she might 
dispose of his life if it so pleased her. 

Not able to give voice to all this passion of feeling possess- 
ing him— ah! how many poems and hymns are dumb 
within us! — he contented himself by taking this Angel of 
his Lost Ideal back to her boat, where he followed her for 
some distance down the river: Maurice looking on from 
among the alders, and speculating on the chances of 
whether she had betrayed him to Jim Sherwood or kept 
the cause of her shriek a secret. He soon made that clear 
to himself by striding up to meet the old man, as he re- 
turned from following the boat along the edge of the park, 
and asking who it was that was rowing down so swiftly. 

Jim Sherwood looked at his young master keenly. He 
was an acute observer, and he had no trust in Maurice. 

‘‘Miss Oarew,^' he answered, gruffly. “She’d been 
skeered by some rapscallion I wish I could put my mark 
on!’^ 

“You should keep better watch, then, ’’said Maurice, 
sharply. “ What right had any one in our wood?” 

“ Did I say it was in our wood, sir?” asked Jim, as 
sharply. 

“ I thought you did,” said Maurice, with an angry look. 

“ Then I didn’t, sir,” said Jim, trudging off the con- 
trary way. 

As for Yetta, now that she was once more alone and 
could think, the one great doubt and fear possessing her 
was: Could she novv marry Lanfrey? — might she still con- 
tinue to love him? She had been insulted by his brother, 
and she dared not complain. She dared not tell her father, 
still less her lover, nor even Mrs. Ellacombe, This pain- 
ful secret was to be her burden through life. Besides, she 
felt dishonored. This rude kiss taken by force burned her 
modesty and degraded her in her own esteem. How angry 
she was with herself for her weakness in going back to this 
enchanted ground! She ought to have remembered the 
peril as well as the pleasure, and to have feared the pres- 
ence of Maurice as much as she desired to renew the recol- 
lection of Lanfrey. It was her own fault — all, all her own 


MILLIOKAIEE AND MISER. 


279 


fault — and she must bear the suffering provoked by her 
sin. It was very hard to bear — very disgraceful, in what- 
ever way she looked at it. And again and again she 
thought. Could she now with honor marry Lanfrey? 

It must be remembered that she was both very young and 
very innocent. She had all a good girFs high-flown notions 
about honor and truth and modesty, and other obsolete virt- 
ues. She was as one born out of time — brought to earth 
from another sphere — and altogether out of harmony with 
the bold free “ realism of modern life and manners. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

WARS AND RUMORS. 

The air was full of rumors. Xo one could say now that 
society at Beaton Brows was flat and uninteresting, or that 
life was like a duck-pond, with no fanning of the surface 
and no stirring of the depths. If report might be believed, 
more commotion was going on under cover than had been 
known since old Maurice and his famous housekeeper had 
been the center round which had gathered the exaggeration 
and invention which always swell a hard little nucleus of 
fact to the size and volatility of a balloon. 

It had crept about by secret methods, which the under- 
ground moles themselves would not have recognized, that 
some kind of love passages had passed between one of the 
young Clintons and Miss Carew. MeiPs minds were divid- 
ed as to which of the young gentlemen it was; and while 
some were prepared -to quarrel with their best friends for 
Maurice, others made Lanfrey the test of a man^s sanity 
and a woman’s morality, and took it as a personal offense 
in those who held a contrary view. Then came all sorts of 
embroideries to still further disguise the original fabric. 
Some said that French Clinton was keen set for the mar- 
riage, and some that he was dead against it; others that 
Paston Carew would give his ears to call a Clinton son-in- 
law; and others again that he would rather see his daugh- 
ter dead than a Clinton’s wife; while most averred that 
Lady Jane was mad at the idea, and the butler reported he 
knew as a fact that she had told her husband if he sanc- 
tioned such an iniquity, she would go into the Divorce 
Court and leave him. 


^80 


PASTON CAKEW;, 


So the talk rolled on; and people, passionately convinced 
that they knew the whole arcana of a matter whereof they 
did not know even the outside setting, were combative in 
proportion to their ignorance, and as contemptuous of the 
beliefs of others as they were positive of their own. 

Then something had manifestly gone askew between Fitz- 
Oeorge Standish and Elsie Arrol. The foolish knight was 
not so devoted as formerly; the plump Madonna was not so 
content. The lute on which had been twanged the madri- 
gal of make-believe chivalry and artistic alfection had got a 
decided rift, which turned all the old harmony to discord, 
and made the refrain “ Ma mie!^^ no more euphonious 
than a cat-call. No one knew from what quarter of the 
sky had come this overshadowing cloud. No one under- 
stood why Fitz-George Standish should look more limp and 
invertebrate in form, more green and yellow in tint, than 
before, nor why he should be so profoundly melancholy, 
nor w% Elsie ArroFs round and dimpled cheeks should 
burn with that brick-dust red which so patently betrays 
displeasure. Only the two immediately concerned knew 
that Petrarca had one day praised Yetta Carew with dan- 
gerous fervency to his objecting Laura, and that he had 
added to this offense the still greater indignity of mildly 
bewailing his celibacy, not quite obscurely hinting at the 
remote possibility of some day finding a mistress for Five 
Oaks. Then had the mirror cracked from side to side, and 
then had the dairy-maid in Medicean costume seen that 
the mask in which she had trodden her measure was noth- 
ing but an elfin show, or a delusion like those created by a 
mocking magician. Fine enough in. the magical hours of 
the night, when the morning broke the fiowers were found 
to be only refuse, and the stately dome under which they 
had grown the blackened roof of a gigantic fungus — a mere 
appearance, no more. Henceforth Madonna must content 
herself with prosaic fact and her unsesthetic husband. 
There could be no more talk of Us — no more reverent allu- 
sions to an occult world whence were excluded the profane 
who admired aniline dyes and did not worship sunfiowers. 
When the two hierophants had fallen apart, who could 
keep alive the altar fire, and set forth the greatness of the 
veiled Isis? 

But there was no open rupture. Elsie Arrol liked to be 
talked of, wondered at, discussed, and — as she thought— 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


281 


admired by those who did not dare to imitate. Neither 
did she object to a little moderate condemnation. This 
presupposes envy; and envy is homage — in its turn intoxi- 
cation. But she did strongly object to the malicious laugh- 
ter which floats after a fiasco. Wherefore she waited, and 
possessed her small soul in such patience as she could com- 
mand, until some legitimate occasion should arise when she 
might reasonably discard her recreant knight and publicly 
pluck her favor from his breast. Then she would go round 
to all her female friends, and say that really Mr. Standish 
was so weak and silly — or had behaved with such inex- 
plicable want of honor on such and such a matter, remotely 
hinted at and not detailed — she could have nothing more to 
do with him, and so had cut him — dead. 

She waited — sure that such an occasion would come, this 
being one of the things which always do come to those who 
wait — causes for quarrel growing as thick as blackberries 
for those who seek them, and pegs on which to hang the 
reasons for a break sure to offer themselves to those who 
wish to find them. 

Besides this, it was reported that Lady Dayman and her 
friend the banker were no longer in the strict accord of 
other days, but decidedly the reverse. The tall slim com- 
mandant was now the tame cat at Clear View; and Mr. 
Arrol was being let down into the well of things worn out 
and done with. Old Sir James looked more miserable and 
was more obsequious to his handsome wife than people quite 
understood why; the commandant was superb; my lady 
was smiling, sleek, serene; the hatchet-faced mother of 
thousands was like one in the throes of a deadly disease; 
Mr. x\rrol was as smooth as a billiard-ball, as soft as a satin 
glove, and gave no one the satisfaction of reading even the 
initial letter of his thoughts. A man of the world from 
head to heel, he never committed the social mistake of re- 
venging himself in public and by detraction. What he did 
was done in private, without witnesses, and therefore with- 
out reporters. Then he washed the dirty linen vigorously 
enough; and he made the hands of the one who washed it 
with him smart down to the very bone. 

Once he had been seen to smile with a strange curl of his 
moist lips, a strange flash in his soft eyes, as Lady Dayman 
strolled past him at the autumnal fruit and flower show — 
too much occupied with a dish of apples, the beauty of 


282 


PASTON" CAREW, 


which she was pointing out to the comuiandant^ to notice 
Mr. Arrol at her elbow, or to return his salute. Then he 
had smiled, turning on his heel; and Paston, who saw this 
little episode, smiled too in spirit, not in fact, as he thought 
to himself, ‘‘ That means vengeance, and I think I know 
the way it will run.-’' 

At Clinton Hall things went on in their old way. So far 
the mine was still a failure, and an outfall, not an income. 
The master of the post-office and the carrier both noticed 
that no letters in the well-known handwriting of Mr. Lan- 
frey came to either the father or Lady Jane; but one, time 
by time, came for Miss Clinton. On which days she would 
be sure to be met somewhere on the way, when she would 
take the letter herself and send the rest up to the Hall. 
And the postmaster noticed that letters in the same well- 
known handwriting went to Miss Carew — though the car- 
rier delivered these without disguise, and slipped them with 
the rest into the locked letter-box of which Paston kept the 
key. These letters Paston himself handed over to i^etta, 
after he had unfastened tliem in his private study, and read 
them from end to end. After which he made capital out 
of his trust in her prudence and Lanfrey’s good faith, and 
so spun another strand in the airy rope of illusive love and 
undeserved gratitude by which he bound his daughter's 
heart and made her believe him better and nobler than he 
was. 

By degrees and in due time — not quite at first, nor all at 
once — Yetta told the truth of things to Mrs. Ellacombe: 
how that she was engaged, yet not engaged, to Lanfrey 
Clinton — her father suffering rather than sanctioning, and 
neither consenting nor denymg. Sweet and gentle always 
— always considerate of others, and with none of that mali- 
ciousness of egotism which takes pleasure in complaining of 
such and such a one^s conduct, thereby creating a party for 
herself — she made the best of matters, though she could 
not keep the tears from her eyes. She did not blame her 
father, even while she had to confess that she did not 
understand him. 

‘‘ Perhaps he wishes to prove Lanfrey ^s real worth,” said 
Mrs. Ellacombe, as the most natural conclusion to be come 
to by an outsider. 

Perhaps, said Y'etta, who did not see why he should. 


MILLION’AIRE AKD MISER. 


283 


It was as if he should wish to prove the sunlight and demon- 
strate mathematically that it was the sunlight. 

But something more than this evidently disturbed the 
girl, and Mrs. Ellacombe asked her frankly what it was. 
She was a woman who had too true a maternal feeling for 
young girls to treat them with formality. They were all 
in a manner like her own children, and the love that cast- 
eth out fear casts out also constraint. Hence she got the 
confidence of the young as much by her straightforwardness 
as by her sympathy; and as infants recognize the deft 
handling of adepts in nursing, so did these others recog- 
nize, almost instinctively, that Mrs. Ellacombe ^s home 
questions did not spring from vulgar curiosity, but from 
the loving nature which feels with and wishes to help — 
which knows that a sorrow shared is lightened of half its 
pain, and a secret imparted is robbed of all its peril. 

Hence Mrs. Ellacombe asked Yetta Carew straight out 
what else was on her mind. This half-permitted, half-re- 
fused engagement to Lanfrey was wearing enough, but 
what was behind? • 

Then Yetta, in much shame and trouble, girl -like fling- 
ing herself on her knees before her friend that she might 
put her arms round her dear matronly waist and bury her 
face in the soft lap, told of her own folly in landing on the 
Clinton estate, followed by Maurice^s proffered love — and 
then that insult of his kiss in the wood — and could she in 
honor after this marry Lanfrey? She could not tell him, 
because of making bad blood between the brothers, but to 
keep it a secret seemed to her so infinitely dishonorable — so 
wicked! — and it scarcely seemed right to marry one brother 
after such an outbreak from another. 

Mrs. Ellacombe did what she could to soothe the poor 
girl, whose initiation into ihe uglier secrets of human nat- 
ure was costing her so much pain. She went into a long 
disquisition oh the difference between accident and design, 
force and consent, and at last reasoned the troubled soul 
into* h little more calmness and a little less shame. Pure- 
^ hearted on her own account, she could well understand 
what a modest girl must feel at such an outrage; but to one 
who knew the darker side of life — bad as this was — it was 
but a small thing compared with others, and was she not 
making too much of it? 

“ And yet,^^ thought Mrs. 'Ellacombe, as she smoothed 


'284 


PASTON CAREW, 


back the ruffled golden hair and kissed the tender, grieving 
face, ‘‘better a conscience so foolishly sensitive as this 
child’s than one seared to the roots by familiarity with dan- 
ger and impropriety. But how those London women, who 
laugh at the old-fashioned modesties, would despise her if 
they heard her — and how the angels must love her!” 

So far Yetta had done well for herself in making a clean 
breast of it to Mrs. Ellacombe. 

To believe that we have sinned, and to be assured that 
we are still innocent, is one of the most divine sensations 
youth can know. The terrors of a timid conscience far out- 
weigh in agony those of a cowardly nature; 'and to 
find that the devil, who, we believe, has come to take 
possession of our soul, is only a shadow flung by a stick 
and a rag, is a relief greater than that of the million- 
aire who dreams he is a pauper, and wakes to find himself 
still possessed of his wealth; of a lover who dreams his 
beloved is false or is dead, and wakes to find her fond arms 
about his neck. For no after-scouring takes from the soul 
its first sense of guilt* The first sins stick; and Yetta’s 
fear that she had lost her spiritual purity, and had gone 
astray into evil, was only equaled by her rejoicing when 
Mrs. Ellacombe made her feel that she had kept the true 
path all along, and had done no harm any way. 

Before the autumn was many weeks older, society had 
another toothsome little morsel to digest. Elsie Arrol’s 
recreant knight completed his defection, and drove over to 
Mock-Beggar with a diamond ring in his pocket, the gross 
value of his rent-roll marked down on a visiting card, and 
his courage screwed up to the sticking-point. He was bent 
on offering to Yetta Carew all he had — his unwholesome 
person and feeble mind; his badly managed estate and early 
Christian relics; his bits of ragged old copes and artistic 
rubbish of broken glass and fractured stones — more sure 
than doubtful that she would accept these treasures, and 
give him in return her beautiful and gracious self. To do 
him justice, her probable dowry made no more part of his 
calculations than it had done with Lanfrey. It was there 
in the background; but had it not been there, and had she 
been the daughter of a genteel pauper instead of a million- 
aire, he would have offered himself all the same. 

Sincerely in love though he was, Fitz-George could none 
the less forego the pleasure of that kind of artificial parade 


MILLIOITAIRE AND MISER. 285 

which passes with such as he for moral artistry and mental 
■dignity. He must do the thing en preux chevalier, and as 
he thought such things should be done — with a savor of old- 
world stateliness and ambassadorial gravity. Accordingly, 
in the presence of her father, he mad.e Yetta Carew a 
formal profession of love and offer of his hand — and waited 
for her reply. 

His hands clasped before him tightly strained; his pallid 
eyes uplifted to her face; his mouth a little open; his ex- 
pression one of waiting to know whether his life was to be 
full of meek despair or modest rapture, he looked the living 
caricature he was. Anything less likely to fascinate a girl 
could scarce be conceived ; but in his own mind he paral- 
leled all the faithful lovers of liistoiy and romance, and 
from Dante to Surrey, from Borneo to Lorenzo, from Sir 
Lancelot to Paolo, there was not one of whose grace he had 
not borrowed the supreme glory. 

Yetta, in profound embarrassment, turned to her father 
for help and guidance; but Paston sat like a statue and 
looked like the Sphinx. Not a line quivered with impa- 
tience or flickered with amusement. He sat, his Ashy eyes 
looking blankly into space, his thin lips set in a tight and 
narrow line, his arms folded across his breast. 

When Yetta turned to him with her one ejaculation of 
‘‘ Father!^'’ almost like the bleat of a frightened lamb, he 
gave no heed, took no notice. It amused him to watch 
this queer little comedy; and it interested him to see how 
his daughter would carry herself. She must learn betimes 
to walk alone, he thought. He should not be always with 
her. And until she married she would naturally be subject 
to offers of this kind from divers and sundry, and her first 
essay at refusing could not be made under better conditions 
than now. Wherefore, when she uttered her little cry for 
lielp, he sat immovable, and it was as if deaf, dumb and 
blind to all that was passing before him. 

You are very good and I am very sorry, then said 
Yetta, driven back on herself; but I can not. 

Oh, do not say this!^'’ said Fitz-George. “ If patient 
waiting, if loyal serving, if the devotion of a life, will win 
your favor, set me the hardest task you know, and I will 
accomplish it in token of my fealty, my devotion!"' 

‘‘I do not want any sacrifice made for me," she 
answered, rather hurriedly. She had the feeling that, un- 


286 PASTOK CAREW, 

less she were prompt and decided, Fitz-George would some- 
how get hold of that typical hair by which all the rest 
would be drawn in. ‘‘ No time would change me. l ean 
not.^^ 

“ Is faithful love, the most precious jewel on earth, so 
lightly regarded by your’^ said Fitz-George. “ Can you be 
so cruel to a true heart which loves you with the sublimity 
of worship, the devotion of chivalry, the tenderness of 
poetry? At least give me cause to hope. 

No, no; it is impossible cried Yetta, her strength 
increasing as his insistence became greater. It could 
never be, Mr. Standish. Believe me, I never could nor 
would! All that can be done is. to forget this moment, and 
never speak of it again. 

Will you not champion me, Mr. Carew?^^ asked this 
poor disappointed living bit of Byzantine mosaic. 

Paston turned his lack-luster eyes slowly on the face of 
the master of Five Oaks. 

My daughter is her own mistress in this matter, he 
•said, coldly. “ I would not force her inclinations nor in 
any way coerce her. If she thinks that she could be 
happy with you, she knows that she will have my consent; 
but I do not compel her assent or refusal."’^ 

“ To influence is not to compel; to advocate is not to 
coerce,'’^ said Fitz-George, humbly but fervently. 

With so obedient, gentle, and loving a child as mme, it 
is,^’ answered Paston.* ‘‘ She would obey me in any case,^-’ 
he added, yet more slowly, more coldly, than before. If 
I pressed, she would accept; if I objected, she would refuse 
— any one ^^—emphatically. 

“You give me more credit than I deserve, dear father, 
said Yetta, answering the sense, the meaning, the applica- 
tion intended. “ At all events, you will not press me to 
accept the offer — the honor of the offer, she added, cor- 
recting herself, “ that Mr. Standish has just made me. 
That is ail we need think of for the present. 

“I beseech you, sweetest lady!^^ pleaded Elsie ArroPs 
recreant knight. 

But Yetta, feeling that she had more to consider than 
mere kindness — that she had her faith to Lanfrey and his 
dignity to defend — cut him short with a peremptory: 

“No, no, Mr. Standish! AVe will say no more about it. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


287 


I shall forget that this conversation has ever taken place; 
and so I am sure will you. 

“I? Can one forget one^s death- wound said Fitz- 
George, mournfully. 

‘‘ I hope not quite so bad as that/^ was Paston^’s dry re- 
joinder. 

“ Oh, Mr. Standish, I am not worth all that!'^ said 
Yetta, in her innocent w^y. 

‘‘ Not worth that! You are worth a man^s very life! I 
would have watched for you in the chapel — leaped the bar- 
riers info the arena among the lions for your glove — dived 
for the cup — done whatever you bade me, if only I could 
have had your smile — your love!^^ cried Fitz- George, with 
a fine mixing of memories. ‘‘ Nothing would have been 
too hard a task if I might have had my reward. 

“ You are too good,""^ said Yetta. “ You will find some 
one worthier than I of your devotion. 

“I could find that only in heaven !^Mie said. “Oh, 
Miss Carew, have you no hope to give me? Must I indeed 
languish in despair ?^^ 

“I could never marry you,'’'’ said Yetta, hastily. 
“ Please do not say any more about it — do not think of it 
again.'’'’ 

“I shall think of nothing else to the end of my life,’^ 
said Fitz-George, tears falling from his eyes in unmistak- 
able showers. 

“ I can not bear to see you so distressed,'” said the poor 
girl, herself in great distress. “ It is dreadful. Don’t cry 
like that, Mr. Standish. It makes me so unhappy I do not 
know what to do. ” 

“I would not make you unhappy for all the world,” 
said the unfortunate lover, heroically gulping down his 
tears. “ Because I am broken-hearted, you need not be 
made sorry. Rather, be bright and blithe like the May 
birds, forgetting anguish.” 

“ The man is sincere and a good fellow at bottom,’^ 
thought Paston to himself. “ But out of an idiot asylum 
where to find his equal? That such fools as this should go 
about the world ticketed men! It makes one doubt the 
general sanity of mankind. It seems to me,’ ’ he then said, 
rising and speaking in his cold, deliberate way, “ that this 
interview has lasted long enough. No good can come of 
it. My daughter has given her final answer, Mr. Standish 


28S 


PASTOK CAREW, 


— prayers and entreaties will have no avail. You are 
merely giving yourself needless pain, and redoubling her 
embarrassment and hardness."’^ 

“You are right. I had better go/^ returned Fitz- 
Oeorge. “ Good-bye, Miss Carew, and may you be happy 

“ Good-bye, Mr. Standish, thank you,^^ was Yetta^s un- 
comfortable answer. 

He took her long fair hand, bent over it, and kissed it — 
his thin mustache and pallid face still wet with his tears — 
and with a sad last look of reproach to Paston, he took his 
leave, and vanished from the scene. 

“You went through that little comedy with spirit and 
dignity, my dear,'’^ said Paston, when Fitz-George Standish 
had fairly gone. 

“Poor fellow! I did not like to see him cry,^'’ said 
Yetta, simply. 

“ His tears moved you?^^ he asked. 

“ To pity him? yes, indeed, she answered. 

“ To nothing warmer than pity?^^ 

“ No,^^ she said, “ nothing. How could they?'-’ 

“ The way to your heart still barred by the Clinton 
wyvern ?" 

“I hold myself engaged to Lanfrey," she answered, 
gently, but quite firmly. 

“ My prohibition notwithstanding?" 

“ You have not absolutely forbidden it, father,-" she 
pleaded. “ You say yourself that it is held only in sus- 
pense.-" 

“ Which, had you been the dutiful child I just now said 
you were, would have been sufficient warning for you," 
said Paston, angrily. 

She threw her arms round his neck. 

“ Oh, father, have mercy on me!" she said, with infinite 
tenderness. “ I love him, and he loves me; why should 
you say we may not marry?" 

“ If my reasons are such as I can not give you," he re- 
turned — “ if I tell you only so much that once the Clintons 
did me an irreparable injury — what then?" 

“ But he did not," she said. “ He is not all his family. 
He could do no wrong to any one — good, noble, generous 
as he is!" 

“ And you would not object to mix your blood with that 
of the family by whom your father's life was ruined?" 


MILLIOITAIRE MISER. 


289 


Paston spoke severely, coldly, harshly. 

“ It is not mined; how is it ruined?^^ she argued. 
“ Why should the whole family be under a ban for the sins 
of one?’"’ 

Hush! foolish child, you do not know what you say,^^ 
he answered. ‘‘ You know neither my wrongs nor my de- 
signs. To the first you have added by this indiscreet affair 
— the last you are thwarting. Had you taken the elder 
brother, things would not have been so bad. But with the 
younger, all my plans, my hopes, are destroyed.'^ 

“ Oh, do not say that, father I"’"’ cried Yetta, in very real 
suffering. 

It was an impiety to wish to transfer her to Maurice — 
Maurice the brutal, in spite of all his fine manners when 
he chose to air them, and what should have been noble 
pride in belonging to an old historic family. After what 
had happened it was as dreadful to her to hear such words 
as if it had been proposed as a fitting husband for her the 
murderer of his brother — Cain to the widow of Abel. 

Her suffering touched her father. He held out his 
hands and drew her closer to him, holding her by her 
wrists and looking into her face. 

I will not let you make me soft and imbecile,^’ he said, 
trying to speak sternly, but his voice was rounder and more 
mellow than it had been. ‘^,What are the tears and senti- 
mental loves of a hysterical girl compared to the grand 
objects of a strong rnan^s life? — the great aims of a majes- 
tic ambition? Nothing! And yet, God help me!-'' he 
added, with a strange outburst that almost terrified his 
daughter, “ I can not see you unhappy, Yetta. If one has 
to yield, it will be I; and you will drive over my happiness 
to your own — a second Tullia, and virtually a parricide. 
But,^'’ he added, with a return to his usual manner, your 
new life founded on undutifulness will not be blessed !"’"' 

Yetta bent her face to her father’s and kissed him, 
ignoring his bitter prophecy. 

‘‘ My happiness is yours and yours is mine,” she said, 
tenderly. “ There must never be a difference between us.’’ 

“ Only to be compassed by your supremacy and my con- 
cession,” he answered, despising himself for his weakness. 

It was not long after this that another succulent sop was 
thrown to the dragon of gossip. It came to the knowledge 
of the place that Lord Masdew himself had proposed to 


290 


PASTON CAREW, 


Yetta Carew, and had been rejected like Fitz-George 
Standish by this fair-haired descendant of the housekeeper. 
The news made Beaton Brows irrationally furious. The 
rector lisped all manner of polyglot satires and scornful 
warnings, beginning with Oorydon’s advice to Galatea, and 
dragging in Herrick’s rose-buds by the way. Mrs. Har- 
court pronounced the girl both foolish and reprehensible, 
and asked, with her nose in the air: Why? For whom 
is she waiting — a duke, or a prince of the blood royal?” 
But Grant Ellacombe, who sincerely liked her, said she was 
right, if she did not love the man, not to sell herself to the 
title, and Mrs. Ellacombe championed her still more 
warmly. Fitz-George did not speak, but secretly he took 
it as balm to his own wounded spirit that she should have 
refused the greatest “ catch ” in his county; for as juxta- 
position and comparison determine the value of all things, 
the comparison here dwarfed the size of his wound and les- 
sened the smart of the sting. 

Mr. Arrol spoke words of wisdom concerning the outstay- 
ing of the market, and picking up a crooked stick at the 
other side of the wood; and Elsie Arrol said tartly she did 
not believe a word of the story. That was the shortest way 
of dealing with things incomprehensible and outside any 
rule of common sense. She had also refused to believe in 
Fitz-George Standish’s proposal, which the birds of the air 
carried about and let fall like moulting feathers, whereof 
every one picked up a sample and brought with malicious 
glee to her. It was a mere bit of brag set about by Mr. 
Oarew, she said; and so stood square and solid on her 
double negation. 

Of all in the place. Lady Jane was the most furious. 
She broke out at home into a real tornado of wrath — into 
one of what her maid was accustomed to call ‘‘ her viragoes 
of passion ” — and made the atmosphere as hot as if there 
were a general conflagration. And no wonder, poor soul! 
seeing that this objectionable 3^0 ung person. Miss Carew, 
had demolished two of her favorite schemes, and had not 
fulfilled her own destiny. For Lady Jane had hoped to 
land Lord Masdew for that showy Sophia of hers, and to 
bring Fitz-George Standish under the matrimonial yoke, 
with Ethel for the partner and herself as the driver. And 
now this horrid girl had cast her cantrips over both, only 
to have the barren honor of refusing chances far too good 


MILLION-AIRE AH-D MISER. 


291 


for her! — and Maurice out of the running — distanced by 
that disappointing and immoral brother of his, who never 
thought of any one but himself! 

So she raved, this poor Lady Jane, with her sharp nose 
a little red at the tip, and her thin acrid voice; and French 
discreetly held his peace. But he liked Yetta all the more 
for her courage and constancy, for all that it made his 
opposition to his song’s desire more difficult to hold by. If 
only he could have cremated Paston Carew so that his very 
ashes should not have been recognizable! Maurice, like 
Fitz- George, did not speak. He saw how deep that love 
for his brother which he affected to despise must have 
struck, and he understood even better than his father how 
useless all opposition would prove in the end. But he 
sometimes hated the girl with a fierceness which only such 
a masterful nature as his can compass; and sometimes he 
loved her — to then hate his brother. 

In this way the autumn crept on and winter came in, 
while the social elements fought and the social earthquakes 
heaved. Men talked loudly, and women incessantly, of 
these various circumstances and events, with addenda and 
exaggerations which made them out of all likeness to their 
original selves; while Paston looked more and more like 
the Sphinx, and Yetta reminded one of a seraph who had 
somehow got hurt about the wings, and so was brought 
nearer to the ordinary race of mortals than she had been 
when she was whole. It was the sympathy of pain which 
brought her thus in line with the rest of the world by rob- 
bing her of the supremacy which lies in serenity and self- 
possession. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE DEUS EX MACHIXA. 

The bank was perfectly solvent. He who should have 
said otherwise in the face of day would have been made to 
eat his libellous leek with that sharp sauce which carries 
costs and awards damages, and is so carefully abjured by 
cautious men. Yet facts are as irrefutable as they are ir- 
repressible, and thoughts are free if words are constrained. 
When it became known that certain bad debts of a formid- 
able kind had been made, and that some of the paper held 


292 


PASTOK CAKEW, 


by the bank was not worth the traditional kite’s tail, 
^ shrewd calculators put their two and two together, and 
* made them into the four affirmed by arithmetic, and found 
so hard to prove by mathematics. 

But' the most far-sighted did not see all. If they said 
that the banker’s private expenditure could scarcely be jus- 
tified by his gains, that his wines and his hunters, his pict- 
ures and his wife’s diamonds, were in excess of his means, 
they were right so far as they went; but they d id not go 
far enough. Asmodeus alone could have told the truth, 
had he taken off the roof and peered into the financial pie 
made between the cellar and the tiles. For one thing, he 
would have found in the bank parlor certain japanned tin 
boxes, with well-sounding names painted in white on the 
outsides, which ought to have been full of securities, and 
were full of only emptiness. The dividends due on the ab- 
sent bonds were regularly paid, to the perfect satisfaction 
of the investors, content with results as investors generally 
are; and no one thought of askffigforthe documents which 
represented their certainty. Ev^ery one, at least of woman- 
kind, believed implicitly in the handsome banker; and 
when clients are enamored of their satin bandage, it is no 
other person’s business to remove it; and to cry ‘ ‘ Wolf!” 
in your neighbor’s sheepfold is more like than not to bring 
his dogs at your own throat. The doctrine of non-inter- 
vention is one of the most useful of all the modern doc- 
trines which have come to us from beyond the seas; and 
obtrusiveness, however chivalrous, is sure to get a broken 
head for its pains. So those who suspected foul play kept 
their suspicions dark, and the whole thing went on in that 
joyous train we all know of, when the grim specter dances 
with the careless crowd, and whirls them laughing to their 
doom. 

No one in Beaton Brows was apparently more satisfied 
with his life, nor had a clearer conscience than the popu- 
lar banker who did so many kindnesses to those needing a 
clever business guide through the bewildering labyrinth of 
investments. If Black Care sat on the crupper behind him, 
she evidently sat on a swan’s-down cushion, and was her- 
self no heavier than gossamer. Evidently, too, he had 
some concealed appliance by which he prevented her lean 
ai’ms from strangling him. What was his patent of per- 
sonal content in the midst of his rickety business matters? 


MILLIOI^-AIRE AND MISEK. 


203 


Those large sums lent to the rotten paper-mills, the rash 
advances which had bolstered up that shaky firm of iron- 
masters— good money going after_bad, as if the first loan 
had in it the niagnetic power of the magic goose — these were 
surely financial eggs taken to a very bad market indeed, 
and the price got for them might have shaken the nerves 
of any one less philosophically serene than Hugh Arrol. 

The Chnton securities, again, were profitless lumber ac- 
cording to his special method of doing business. They 
were scarcely as negotiable as some others he held, and the 
interest on them was paid in driblets and never to time. 
They represented a goodly sum of scantily productive cap- 
ital, some local pride, some social power; but they were not 
material wherewith to patch a rent nor fill a hole. 

Things, however, were fair enough to the eye; it was only 
the core that was doubtful. More than one said in cautious 
whispers, afraid of their own echo, what would that core 
be if squeezed — pulp or solid substance? financial sound- 
ness or monetary rottenness? 

Suddenly there stole about the place a rumor which, like 
the bull-roarer, gathered volume as it went. It was a 
rumor touching the bank and its solvency, and was no 
longer confined to the cautious few who whispered to each 
other, afraid of their own echo. Ho one knew who first 
started it, no one knew who kept it going. A few caustic 
epigrams from the rector gave it a push onward; a few' 
melancholy reflections from Grant Ellacombe on the in- 
iquity of human nature added to its momentum. When 
Paston Oarew was asked if he had heard it, he looked ask- 
ance and said. Yes, he had, or haply he said nothing at all. 
He merely lifted up his eyebrows as one who already knew', 
and who, if he would, could tell more than was told to him, 
but also as one who did not wish to do a neighbor harm. 
Of wdiat good to break the alligator^ s egg he held in his 
hand, and set the sharp-toothed little beasts scampering over 
the sands? No one should say that the owmer of Mock- 
Beggar had added so much as a handful to the snow-ball 
rolling on the high- way, yet all were made aware that he 
knew, deplored, despised, despaired. And to those who 
did not ask him he led the conversation somehow right 
across the banker^s door, and suggested what he did not 
define. Extravagance was the vice he most despised; fail- 
ure was the unforgivable sin of business men; and his con- 


294 


PASTON CAKEW, 

tempt for those who allowed their iniquities to be found out 
rivaled his abhorrence of all those fleshly lusts which had 
hypothetically ruined the handsome banker of Beaton 
Brows. Still, he said nothing that any one could repeat. 
He only let it be divined that he understood the whole 
affair, and he showed that he thought the worst that could 
be thought. 

These rumors had been going on for some time now, and 
the law which regulates the action of the bull-roarer regu- 
lated them. They filled the social atmosphere with their 
noise, so that little else was heard and naught else listened 
to. Then market-day came round, and the town was in a 
state of excitement, as if it were besieged. It was a cold,, 
raw, miserable day, but the picturesque old market-place 
was as full as if it had been summer fair-time. There was 
this difference, however, that, whereas at fair-time every 
one was smiling, happy, willing to be amused, prepared to 
enjoy, here the faces were full of care and anxiety, of wrath 
and perplexity — gloom and anger alternating like the flash 
of lightning and the darkness of the thunder-cloud. A 
stream of depositors passed to and fro, and in and out by 
the swing-door at the bank. Some of them had the look of 
men ashamed of themselves — as if they had lost their dig- 
nity in a scare and been crowded into cowardice, when they 
should have stood apart and been brave. Others, again, 
grinned with satisfaction as they slapped their breeches 
pocket and felt themselves safe and to leeward, looking like 
mariners in a gale who had just escaped shipwreck. There 
were a few who carried back their deposits, lulled to false 
security by the methodical ease with which they had been 
paid out. 

Nevertheless the crowd swelled and the va-et-vient in- 
creased. The run on the bank had begun, and the pass- 
ing-bell of its credit had sounded. Before eleven o^clock 
the last available farthing had been paid out, and the bank 
coffers were empty. The ruin which Hugh Arrol had fore- 
seen for so long had come upon him, and he had to face it, 
willingly or unwillingly. He had had a good time and a fine 
burst, heading the hounds and chasing that old fox Fort- 
une over the fair land of pleasure. But now the quarry 
had run to earth, and he had to reckon with the hounds. 

“ Close the door and put up the shutters,^ ^ he said tran- 
quilly to his old clerk. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


295 


■ He gave the order as he might have said, Shut the 
window and draw down the blinds against the sun. 

Not a muscle quivered, not a line in his face altered. He 
was an Epicurean from head to heel; and when he had en- 
joyed the best things with gusto he did not lose his strength 
in bewailing the worst. - He had had his day, and night is 
the inevitable consequence. Besides, who knows what gra- 
cious secrets may not lie hidden beneath the star-spangled 
veil? Violets grow at the feet of ruins, and a clever finan- 
cier knows how to make a secret pile, even when to all ap- 
pearance the whole thing has leveled itself like a mound of 
cheese-mites. 

“ Close the door and put up the shutters, he repeated, 
quietly. ‘‘We must suspend payment.^’ 

Old Lennard — the head clerk who had served Hugh Ar- 
rows father as faithfully as he had served him, the son, and 
whose honor was bound up with that of the bank he had 
worked for and rejoiced in all his life — stood for a moment 
paralyzed with shame and overwhelmed with grief. It had 
come, then, to this; they were dishonored and bankrupt! 
He had always been afraid that Mr. Hughes rapid running 
would land him in a ditch; but it was not his to object nor 
to reason. To him, and such as he, belong the servant's 
duty of obedience, the servant’s virtue of discretion, and 
the silence which assumes blindness. The subordinate 
must not question the doings of the superior, even though 
his own porridge is boiling over from the kail-pot; and 
“ theirs but to do or die ” holds good in more relations 
than those of the army. 

His thin hands trembling, tears in his faded eyes, and 
his pend ulous under-lip hanging like an empty purse, old 
Lennard stood for a momenj: before obeying the order 
which told all. Angry voices were heard in the bank, and 
horny fists resounded on the counter. There was a hubbub 
outside, where the crowd had increased, when a knock 
came to the door which gave on to the by-street, and Pas- 
ton Carew, saying, “ May I come in?” walked into the 
bank parlor, where Hugh Arrol sat facing his ruin with a 
smile, while old Lennard coughed to hide his sobs, and 
sniffed up his tears in the way of a man with catarrh in the 
head. 

“I see you are in straits,” said Paston, in his cold, im- 
passive way. 


296 


PASTON CAEEW. 


“ Yes; the road is rather hard traveling/^ returned Hugh 
Arrol, airily. These fools spoil their own fortunes. Few 
banks can stand a sudden run, when, if let alone, (hey 
would be as safe as a church. I was sound and solvent 
enough till this cursed panic took the crowd, and these 
dogs came at my heels. It is their loss, however, even 
more than mine, and I wish them joy of their madness!’^ 

He spoke in his jaunty way, but the drops had gathered 
on his upper lip, and he was more agitated than he cared 
to show. He did not like to have to confess his failure to 
Paston Carew of all men. For all his advocacy of the man 
versus the name — of the claims of democratic wealth 
against those of aristocratic exclusiveness — he did not 
specially relish the position of the beaten, hence the infer- 
ior, in which he now stood before Paston Carew — the Creat- 
ure^s son, and by this time known to be the biggest screw 
and tightest fist in Fellshire. 

“You have always been friendly to me, and I will prove 
my friendliness to you/’ said Paston. “ Give me the Clin- 
ton securities — all that you have— and I will tide you over 
this bad pinch to the extent of their value. You hold se- 
curities, I know.^^ 

“ A few,^'’ he said. “ Not quite equal to the amount 
wanted. And my honor to my clients would scarcely allow 
me to put their affairs out to market. 

His handsome face was pinched and pale, and he kept 
his eyes turned down. 

“ So?^^ said Paston, in his driest way. “ I am sorry if 
your scruples prevent your saving yourself from an over- 
whelming disaster like the present. I should have thought 
that you could hand over the Clinton securities with a good 
conscience. They would cover your indebtedness to me; 
and the bad hour would have passed. 

More voices from the bank; more noise of trampling feet 
and scuffling energies in the street; more wandering to and 
fro of weeping women and their frightened, wailing chil- 
dren; more false attempts at soothing by the .distracted 
clerks — while Paston stood with a dispatch-box in his hand 
full to the hinges with gold and notes. 

He had long known that this day must come — he himself 
had helped in its coming — and he had been prepared ever 
since the summer. He had already secured some of the 
Clinton bonds; with these in reserve he should be master 


MILLIOI^AIEE AND MISEE. 


297 


of their fate. It was the hour for which he had toiled and 
lived, and this weak, pleasure-loving fool delayed and dal- 
lied. 

‘‘I owe the Clintons nothing,^' then said Mr. Arrol, 
reasoning with himself. “ At such times as this we must 
all do what we can. They are as proud as Lucifer him- 
self, even when one is doing them a service, and their se- 
curities are scarcely negotiable. 

‘‘Not negotiable at all,^^ said Paston. “ They will be a 
claim against you, not against them. I could scarcely 
change them for cash in the city. 

“You shall have, them,^^ said Mr. Arrol, suddenly sur- 
rendering. 

The noise in the bank was louder; the menu’s voices were 
hoarser; the crowd in the street was denser. No time was 
to be lost. If the thing were' to be done it must be done 
quickly, and Paston would not part with a farthing imtil 
he had his securities. The banker opened a tiu box on 
which was painted “ Clinton, and took out the deeds and 
securities one by one, and one by one Paston examined 
them in a kind of rough outline. His eyes flamed from be- 
neath th^r brows, and shone between the narrow lids like 
lines of fire. His hands were curved, and the fingers bent 
themselves like the claws of a vulture. The veins on his 
forehead had started, and his sinews were like whijD-cord; 
but his nerves were as steady as if made of steel. He was 
no timid hunter to carefully stalk his prey and then to miss 
for the nervousness of fear — no inexperienced girl fright- 
ened by her own sensations. He knew his own mind, and 
was prepared for all the chances of the contest; and if the 
difficulties and dangers had not deterred him, the intoxi- 
cation of success should not paralyze him. He had come 
prepared as we know. He had foreseen this catastrophe, 
wdiich in truth he himself had mainly brought about, 
and he made himself the deus ex machind with fore- 
gone intent. He took the securities, and verified the gross 
amount; then paid it down with a sigh. Even at this su- 
preme moment, to part with his money, though it bought 
his success, caused him a pain as sharp as that of death. 

“ Open your doors and pay your way,^^ he said, coldly. 
“ The more formal assignment must wait.^^ 

“ The bank is saved, thanks to you,"" said Hugh Arrol, 
with a slight touch of effusiveness. 


298 


PASTON CAEEW, 


‘‘ Yes, thanks to me/^ repeated Paston, with a peculiar 
smile. 

It was not for the bank he thought. That might have 
gone by the board, carrying the prosperity of half Beaton 
Brows with it, for aught he would have cared. He had not 
parted with his beloved money to bolster up this pleasure- 
loving spendthrift, nor yet to stave, off ruin from the crowd 
of small farmers and saving shop-keepers who had intrusted 
their all of prosperity to this sensual sponge. He had paid 
down so much cash for the right of holding the Clintons as 
his victims, and to make them feel that he was their mas- 
ter. He would soon make them know that. When the 
legal forms should be accomplished he would then bring 
down his hand heavily, and the wj’ongs of the past should 
be avenged by the present. 

As he drove back to Mock-Beggar this wet, raw, driz- 
zling day was to him as if full of midsummer glory. He 
knew nothing of the penetrating damp that soaked through 
the very flesh, and deposited rheumatism and neuralgia like 
so much sediment left by the tide. He forgot all about 
Yetta and her craze, as he considered it, for one of the 
hated brood. He forgot even his haunting thought of his 
mother and that other silent spirit who never left him. He 
knew nothing but the sharp pleasure of his revenge; and 
the world was bounded by the papers he held now as his 
own — the papers which represented his power to foreclose 
when he would, and force the Clinton estate into the market. 

Pious after his own fashion, he carried his joy to God, 
and thanked the Universal Father for his victory. For 
does not all religious gratitude presuppose special protec- 
tion, from national “ Te Ueums^'’ downward to the 
“Thank God for His mercy of a pious solicitor whose 
fortune had been founded on a mishandling of securities 
and trust funds? And Paston neither went beyond nor 
lagged behind the rest of the unthinking world when he 
offered up his prayer of thanksgiving in that he was now in 
a position to destroy his enemies. 

Meanwhile things went slowly forward at the hank. 
When they saw that money was forthcoming freely, and 
that the run was answered so gallantly, many depositors 
left their investments, as some in the earlier hours had 
done, and by degrees the panic subsided and the danger 
was at an end. It had been a sharp burst and a dangerous 


MILLIONAIKE AND MISEK. 


299 


pincli; but Hugh Arrol was not the man to fret for the bad 
chances of life. He was never more urbane, never more 
gallant nor more lover-like to his plump little wife, than on 
this evening, when only so few hours ago he had stood on 
the brink of ruin and had looked over into the abyss. 

Everything had been prepared. He had made up his 
mind, and his portmanteau was packed. He would have 
gone over to Spain, that paradise of swindlers and default- 
ers; and there, amid the orange groves of Andalusia, he 
would have forgotten the biting east winds of England, and 
would have enjoyed life as usual. Nevertheless he was glad 
to be saved this enforced enjoyment of southern climes and 
flowers. All things considered, he preferred his English 
cake at Beaton Brows, and would rather than not be still 
considered an honest man by the hoodwinked. Perhaps he 
would tide over the danger altogether — not only for a time 
— who knows? Financial miracles may still be expected 
by the clever and the sanguine; and it is not every default- 
ing trustee who is found out and brought to book. 

But notwithstanding this escape there were a few bad 
quarters of the inevitable hour to be gone through; and 
Mr. Arrol had need of all his courage to meet some of the 
specters which confronted him. For instance, angry though 
he was with Lady Dayman, it was not quite a bed of roses 
on which he lay when she came to him the day after the 
run on the bank, and demanded certain securities and doc- 
uments which he had in safe-keeping. The ban ker tried 
to put her off with fair word sand roseate reasons; but Lady 
Dayman^s suspicions had been aroused, and nothing short 
of ocular demonstration and tangible proof would satisfy 
her. 

“ I wish to have them. I wish to take them with me,^^ 
she repeated, always returning to the point off which he 
vainly tried to beat her. 

“You can not to-day, was his answer at last. “ I can 
not give them to you.'’^ 

“ And why not?^'’ she asked, her voice, eyes, attitude, 
threatening and disturbing. 

“They have been sent to London, he replied. “I 
have put them in a place of safety. 

“ What is this bank?'’^ was her scornful rejoinder. 

“ Scarcely so safe, ma lelle, as the Bank of England 
he said, with a laugh. 


300 


PASTON CAREW, 


“ And they are all in the Bank of Englandr^^ 

‘‘ Yes/’ he answered, without blushing. 

Lady Dayman looked at him long and narrowly; then go- 
ing up to him she said, in a strange voice, pointing her 
finger to his forehead : 

“ Mr. Arrol — Mr. Arrol from her! — I see thief writ- 
ten across your forehead. Thief — thief — and liar!^^ 

Her manner was so dramatic, her voice so changed, her 
action so awe-inspiring, that Hugh Arrol shrunk and cow- 
ered. Nothing, in his life had ever impressed him so much 
as this accusation thus made. 

You have robbed us all,^^ continued Lady Dayman. 

Me, the boy. Sir James. You deserve the gallows far 
more than many a wretch who has been hanged for a mur- 
der committed in a fit of sudden passion. AYu are worse 
than a swindler; you are branded like Cain!^^ 

Does raving help you, fair lady?"’"’ said the banker, 
after a pause, during which he had done his best to “ pull 
himself together, as he would have said. Abuse comes 
■^badly from that beautiful mouth, and savors too much of 
Bilingsgate for Lady Dayman to use. Besides, to what 
good? It helps nothing; only heats your own blood and 
destroys your beauty. You had better talk the thing over 
reasonably, and see what can be done.^^ 

‘‘You are a wretch, an infamy!’-’ said Lady Dayman, 
passionately. 

The more exalted strain of her anger was passing, and 
she was falling into the hysterical violence of a desperate 
woman. 

“Am I so? — and you, sweet lady,' what are your'’^ he 
said. 

“ What you have made me!^^ she replied. 

“ No; what nature made you,^^ he laughed, lightly 
touching her fiaming cheeks with the tips of his fingers. 
“ The whirligig ,of public opinion sets too much now the 
other w^ay. From stoning .the woman and crowning the 
man, it does the reverse; and every willing Cyprian — like 
my Lady Dayman, for example — is held as a victim of 
whom a few touches make a saint and a martyr, while the 
man is the scapegoat sent into the desert to perish. My 
social ethics do not run thus. To me the Cyprian and 
the Lovelace are about equal; and a married woman has 
only herself to blame. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


301 


I might have expected nothing else/'' said Lady Day- 
man, bitterly. “ Your morals are of a piece all through."^ 

“ Like yours, sweetheart/'' he answered. ‘‘But, come 
now, of what good is it for the pot to call the kettle black?'" 
he said, remonstratingly. “ That does not whitewash 
either.'" 

“Nor give me back my property,"" returned Lady Day- 
man, beginning to weep. 

“ Nor give you back your property," returned Hugh 
Arrol, quite at ease now when tears had begun to flow. 
“ You will have it some day, I hope, when the tide turns 
with me, and I can redeem your securities. Meanwhile I 
trust you, you see, to hold your tongue. You will do no 
good by talking, and — I can ruin you when I will. " 

“You are a monster — a wretch — a fiend!" she cried, 
with energy. 

“ So?'" he answered. “ The hand of steel pinches you, 
does it? but that is your own fault. If you will, you shall 
never feel other than the velvet glove. And, believe me, 
that is the wiser way. '" 

“ And what am I to do when Sir James asks me where 
those securities are?'" she sobbed. 

“ As if you care for what that miserable man may ask!'" 
he answered, sneeringly. “ Put him off with a caress — you 
can do that to perfection — and tell him to come and talk 
to me. It is not much he will get out of me, I promise 
you." 

“ Are you a man or a devil?" cried Lady Dayman. 

“ Whichever you choose to make me," he answered. 
“ The choice rests with you. " 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE SUMMONS TO SURRENDER. 

Before Paston could be absolute master of the situa- 
tion, certain legal formalities had to be gone through — and 
the law's delays are proverbial. He fumed and his solic- 
itors procrastinated. The more he fumed the more they 
procrastinated, and the longer would be his bills because of 
his letters of sharp remonstrance and their answers of curt 
no-reasons. But all things come to an end. Even those 
law's delays have their term; and though the mills grind 


302 


PASTOIf CAEEW, 


slowly, the granite runs out in sand before the day is done. 
After much precious time had been consumed, like dia- 
monds reduced to carbon — time wherein his revenge was as 
a famished lynx creeping round the barred-in corral — the 
work was finally completed, and he was at last finally seated 
in the saddle. 

He was now the arbiter of the Clinton destinies, and he 
held the proud family in the hollow of his hand. He had 
only to give them notice that he intended to foreclose the 
various mortgages he possessed, and they musl; come to 
their knees. They could not redeem their obligations. 
They were hampered on all sides. The mine was doing no 
good, and was only a grave outfall. The building was as a 
runlet still further draining the almost exhausted reservoir. 
The ship was foundering in mid-ocean, and there was no 
help for them. No deus ex machind would start up on the 
stage of their accumulated disaster to avert the ruin they 
had called down on themselves, as he had averted that of 
Hugh Arrol. Miracles do not come into the ordinary run 
of life; and to all appearance nothing but a miracle could 
now save the Clintons. 

The passion of his triumph was almost more than Paston 
could bear. Like the fever of great love, it oppressed him 
as much as it elated; and superstitious as he was, he often 
feared that some malignant influence would come like a 
shadow over his glory, and, like a thief in the night, rob 
him of his just earnings. But when he had received the 
last document by which his position was legalized and his 
triumph secured, he gave instructions to his lawyer, to write 
to French Clinton, giving him the formal notice of fore- 
closure, and with it the sentence of his doom. 

How his hate would have gloated over the scene at the 
hall when the letter came from the London firm which 
brought French Clinton his first intimation that his old 
enemy had his deeds, and was now the one sole mortgagee 
— the omnipotent creditor on the land! 

“ Had I known he would have played me this scurvy 
trick, I would have broken every bone in Hugh ArroFs 
body!'’^ said French, flaring out into fiery wrath, as his 
manner was. 

“ It is disgraceful! It is a burning sin and shame !'’^ said 
Lady Jane, as chorus. ‘‘ It is most treacherous, most dis- 


MILLIOKAIEE AKD MISEE. 


303 


honorable, and the law should not allow such things to be 
done/^ 

Maurice said nothing. He sat looking down on the 
ground, his face flushed, his lips twitching beneath his 
mustache, his body braced like that of a man who has to 
go through a trial of strength and must not give his enemy 
odds. It was almost harder for him than for his father. 
He was younger, consequently less seasoned to pain and 
annoyance. Though French could not boast of much self- 
discipline, and his humility was about the flimsiest rag that 
ever covered the shivering soul of virtue, he had a shade 
more sense of the inevitable than his son, and his pride 
was not quite so rampant. Man for man it was a heavier 
blow for the younger, though the position of- the father 
relative to others was more painful. He was in possession. 
He was the head of the family, the guide and leader, re- 
sponsible to them all and to society for this failure. 

If his father — that poor Humphrey who had found his 
release from earthly cares in a sleepless night and a bottle 
of chloral — had done his best to bring down the family tree 
by draining the roots in betting and horse-racing, he could 
not plead on his own behalf that he had honestly tried to 
repair the damage. Eather than this, he had been financi- 
ally reckless and riotous. Far from reducing the already 
excessive expenditure by one pound, he had added to it by 
many. That building, which was a mere note of defiance 
— as of a game-cock answering the shrill challenge of a 
hybrid, the mine which Humphrey had sunk, then aban- 
doned in despair — but which he, tempted by the hope of 
gain and flattered by the reports of experts, had continued 
to as yet such dire results — his stables, his house, his people 
— no, in nothing had he drawn in, and he was in sorrowful 
truth criminally responsible for the ruin that had come 
upon them. But he was not responsible for this onslaught 
by their hereditary foe. That burden lay on Hugh ArroFs 
shoulders. And it was a strange and fierce kind of relief 
to French to turn from his own self-accusation to that pas- 
sionate denunciation of the banker, by which he sought to 
obscure his voluntary footsteps across the desert of their 
destruction. 

“ It is a just punishment/^ he said, after a pause. I 
was false to myself and my order when I suffered myself to 
associate as an equal with such a fellow. The Arrols and 


304 


PASTOK CAREWj 


ourselves ought never to have been on visiting terms. We 
should have kept them at arm^s-length, like the canaille 
they are.^^ 

“ I do not see that treating him with personal coolness 
would have prevented his selling the securities to Paston 
CareWj” said Maurice, slowly. He did not affect exag- 
geration in matters of business, and in his first moments of 
despair he was not generous enough to wish to spare his fa- 
ther. ‘‘ You were bound to borrow, he continued, ‘‘*and 
you borrowed more easily because of your social countenance 
to the lender. Paston Oarew has dogged us. from the first. 
Now he has run us down, and it is easy to see how it has 
been done. 

You mean that late run on the bank?^^ said his father. 

“ Yes. That was ArroPs extremity and Oarew ^s oppor- 
tunity,^^ returned Maurice. ‘‘We can not wonder that he 
took advantage of it. ’A 

“ Are you making yourself his advocate asked French, 
with an angry frown. 

“Not at all, sir. I only like to see things as they are,^^ 
answered Maurice, his fighting look on his flushed face. 

“ Taking a leaf out of Lanfrey^s book of universal toler- 
ance, hey?^’ said his father, a slight sneer coloring his 
words. 

“ Lanfrey’s books are generally not so reasonable as 
mine,'’^ said Maurice, giving back the sneer. “ He is a 
reformer. I am only a man of the world. 

“ And I am neither one nor the other? — a mere preju- 
diced, blunder-headed country gentleman?^ ^ flashed out 
French. . 

Maurice was about to make an insolent answer. That 
unpleasant little smile preluded it. The nerves of both 
men were ajar, and it was a relief to spar and spur together, 
though they were father and son. Each thought the other 
hard and unsympathetic, and each thought his own position 
the more lamentable of the two. 

Lady Jane laid her hand on her son^s arm. “ Do not 
anger your father, Maurice,’" she said, a certain tartness 
informing her efforts at peace-making, like the subacid 
flavor of fruits which grow on thorny bushes. “ We have 
enough to bear as things are. We need not add to our 
troubles dissension among ourselves.” 

“ You are right, mother. But who is adding dissen- 


MILLIOiTAIRE AND MISER. 305 

sion?^^ said Maurice, with an artificial smile. ‘‘ Not my 
father, and not I. We were only discussing the lines of 
likeness between Lanfrey and myself, and settling the rela- 
tive amount of worldly wisdom among us all. 

French turned away. Between his two sons, Maurice 
was his favorite, as he was also Lady Janets, but he had to 
acknowledge, against his will as it might be, that where 
Lanfrey had the temper of an angel, Maurice ^s matched 
that of a demon for both acrimony and the power of annoy- 
ing. Still, he did not want to quarrel with — what he felt 
now to be — his poor defrauded heir. The lad had enough 
on his young shoulders, and his insolence was but natural. 
His own temper was hot, and his patience had about as 
much tenacity as one of Michael Scott^s ropes of sea-sand, 
but he had that consciousness of his defects which comes by 
experience, and he knew better than Maurice how to avoid 
occasions. Nevertheless, he could not resist his last small 
fling. 

“ Worldly wisdom seems to be rather at a discount at 
present all round among us Clintons, he said, as he 
turned away. 

On which Maurice, who lacked his father’s finer strain, 
and did really wish to sting him as a punishment for their 
ruin, said, with a mocking accent and that slender thread 
of insolence which is rather a flavor than a substance: 

Speak for yourself, sir. I believe in my own judg- 
ment. ” 

“Prove its value now,” retorted French. “What dg 
you suggest?” 

“ Marriage with Miss Carew,’ ’ said Maurice, 

Your own?” 

Faute de mieux,” was the young officer’s reply. 

“ How is this possible when your brother has already cut 
you out?” asked French. 

He accepted the proposal quite quietly, and no longer 
“ flew as he had flown before, when the thing had been 
first mentioned. Of itself alone this was the most eloquent 
sign that could be given of the revolution that had been 
wrought by circumstances. 

Mr. Carew knows how to command; Miss Carew is too 
gentle not to be obedient, and the prospect of his daugh- 
ter’s one day being the lawful owner, by her husband, of 
the placg where he was disgraced will reconcile him to the 


306 


PASTON CAKEW. 


loss of his own mastership. He has only this girl, you see, 
and I believe he loves her, curmudgeon as he is. 

“All very fine, Maurice. A scheme on paper can be 
made to look as clear as the sun. The hitch comes in the 
working. How about your brother.^^^ 

“ My brother must yield to the force majeure of neces- 
sity,’’ answered Maurice, in his oif-hand way. “ His sen- 
timental attachment was folly from the beginning. It 
would now be a crime if persisted in to the ruining of the 
family.” 

“ She is really a very charming girl,” said French, as if 
deliberating. 

“If it be true that Lord Masdew proposed for her, she 
has had aspirants on a line with ourselves,” said Maurice. 

“ Yes; but if he did, she refused him; which looks like 
constancy to your brother, or fiying at still higher game,” 
said his .father. 

“ What higher game could Paston Carew’s daughter 
have, sir, than a marriage with a Clinton of Clinton.^” 
asked Maurice, proudly. 

“ That’s about true,” said French, as the echo. 

“ It would be a greater honor to Paston than to marry 
her to a title,” philosophized Lady Jane. “ Our estimates 
of things are governed by our own personal experience, not 
by the mere opinions of the world; and I am sure that Mr. 
Carew would rather have his foot on Clinton than on any 
other estate in the country. And of course,” she sighed, 
“ if Maurice married the girl, we must receive the father.” 

“ Still, it seems rather hard on Lanfrey,” persisted 
French. 

Lady Jane had not been his own first love, and he re- 
membered what the loss of his young hope had cost him. 

“ We all have to suffer in this life,” said Lady Jane, 
piously. 

“ Between a vulgar love-match and self-sacrifice for the 
preservation of the estate, surely even Lanfrey could not 
hesitate!” said Maurice, as if the chance of Lanfrey’s doing 
his duty to circumstances was one of the most problematic 
in the world. “ The very essence of Christianity is in- 
volved in the idea of sacrifice,” he continued, playing to 
his mother. “ And Lanfrey, if anything at all but a pud- 
ding-head, is a logical Christian-even, I believe^ to th^ 
extent of being a Christian socialist!” 


MILLIOI^AIEE AKD MISEK. 307 

Never mind what Lanfrey is/^ said French, with sad- 
den sternness. His man’s sense of fairness and justice was 
revolted. I tell you frankly, Maurice, I do not like your 
plan, as things are. ” 

“ Propose a better,” replied his son, briskly. 

■ It is simply too good to be true,” put in Lady Jane, 
in her most decisive, trenchant manner. If Maurice can 
induce that girl to forego her sentimental folly, and if he 
can make Paston accept him as her husband, with a dower 
that shall more than cover the debt, we may think our- 
selves well out of it, French. There will be nothing then 
to fear and nothing to regret.” 

“ Your younger son will not echo that sentiment, my 
dear,” said French. 

“ My younger son will do his duty when the time comes,” 
said Lady Jane, grandly. 

And her husband said no more. He knew his wife, and 
respected her signals. 

He indemnified himself in some measure by a savage on- 
slaught on Hugh Arrol, of whom he was not afraid; and 
unloaded his soul of some of its bitter cargo by reproaches 
which he fondly hoped would touch the banker’s seared con- 
science as with a red-hot brand, and make bis days uneasy 
and his nights oppressive. He hoped in vain. Hugh 
Arrol’s own individual pain and peril were too great to 
leave him the power of commiserating another. With all 
these bM debts and abstracted securities on his own hands, 
how should he care for French Clinton’s annoyance at hair- 
ing to eat the bitter bread of — partially — his own baking? 
If he had wanted to keep the estate intact, he should have 
banked up, not overfiowed. He was not a . child who did 
not understand the meaning of his actions, nor one who 
looked for supernatural ways whereby to escape the assigned 
consequences. And of what good to cry over spilled milk? 
The thing was done, and could not be undone. Paston 
Carew held the securities. He was now the sole mortgagee; 
and Mr. Clinton must reckon with him, not the bank. 

All this Hugh Arrol said in his soft voice and with his 
winning manner— a little thinner and less rounded off than 
formerly, perhaps, but without patent acridity, and always 
urbane and well-seeming; while French blustered and 
bullied amain, and lost his temper as easily as a loose rider 


308 


PASTON^ CAREW, 


loses his seat — making the expletives fly like stones in the 
road. 

‘‘It was a d d ungentleman-like thing to do!^^ he said, 

tempestuously. “ You, who knew ail the circumstances, 
must have known that Paston Oarew was the last man in 
the world I would have chosen for my creditor. You must 
have known that you could not injure me more than By 
making this transfer, and that you sold me into the hands 
of the worst enemy when you did make it.'’^ 

“ My dear sir, what would you have me do?^^ remon- 
strated Hugh Arrol, blandly, taking up the question on its 
merits, and ignoring the sentiment underlying it as of no 
more value than a bunch of parsley-fern at the base of a 
granite bowlder which has to be blasted for building stones. 

Some fools made a ran on the bank, as you know. I 
was cleaned out, and had nothing for it but to put up the 
shutters, when in came this old sphinx — for all the world 
like a jack-in-the-box with the lid open, or a deiis ex 
macliind of the Greek stage — and offered to tide me over 
the breakers on the transfer of your securities. AVould you 
have done differently if yo;i had been in my place? Would 
you have had me close the bank and confess to ruin, sim- 
ply to keep those bonds in my own hands? That would 
have been more quixotic than business-like, and in the end 
would not have advanced you one hair^s-breadth. For I 
should soon have been obliged to do what Paston Carew has 
done, and call in the money lent on them. As they could 
not have been redeemed, you would have had just the same 
bit of spelling to learn by heart as now. It would have 
been the same thing in the end. 

“ No, sir; by no means the same thing. You are talking 

confounded humbug, and you know it — d d lies, that 

is the proper word for them!^’ thundered French. “We 
could have found a more manageable and less grabbing and 
unfriendly creditor — some one who would have taken his 
interest and been content to wait until things had righted 
themselves, as they will do when the mine begins to pay. 
We could have taken them to London, and have offered 
them to my lawyer, who would have found twenty clients 
glad to place their money on good security at five per 
cent.^^ 

Hugh Arrol slightly smiled, and French Clinton, 
“reared/^ 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


309 


You smile at the idea of Clinfon being good security?^’ 
he asked* 

‘‘ I think i could find better/^ was the answer. “ Good, 
if you like, as a purchase— but as an investment, including 
punctual payment of the interest?^'’ 

He arched his eyebrows to match the interrogation of his 
voice. 

“ In no case was it necessary to sell to Paston Carew,'’^ 
reiterated French, who longed to wring the neck of the 
bland, smiling, unctuous banker. “He is not the only 
capitalist in the world. 

“ At that moment he was the only man in the world with 
a rap in his pocket, so far as I was concerned, said Mr. 
Arrol. “ It was a bitter pill for me too,^'’ he continued, 
changing his manner to one a little penetrated with pathos 
— for self-pity is pathetic. “ You do not seem to recognize 
that, Mr. Clinton! I had to knuckle down to this man — 
to own myself beaten but for his help — do you think that 
was a time of roses? 

“ What is your bitter pill to me?^^ said French, with the 
selfishness of pride, the hardness of suffering. “ You 
might have knuckled down till you had worn your knees 
and fingers bare for what I cared. It was your own doing. 
Why were you such a fool as to bolster up those rotten 
concerns, as you have done — throwing good money after 
bad, in the vain hope that both would come back to you? 
There is the pinch. That is where you have ruined your- 
self, and where you have shown as little business sagacity, 
Arrol, as friendliness to me in your action about the 
securities. ^ 

“ I might retaliate and fiing back the dart with an addi- 
tional barb,^^ said Hugh Arrol, with a smile that drove 
French Clinton nearly frantic. “ If you, my dear sir, had 
let alone that financial hydra on Brent Fell — had not fed 
its monstrous heads as you have done; had not touched 
bricks and mortar — you would not have needed to mort- 
gage so heavily and you would still be master of your own 
estate. We have both been short-sighted in our specula- 
tions, my dear sir,^^ he continued, taking a slightly patron- 
izing, slightly forgiving tone, which French afterward 
wondered that he had born so tranquilly; “ and we can not 
make our folly wisdom by recrimination. I am sorry for 
you and for myself. We are both in a hole, and the ques- 


310 


PASTON" CAREW, 

tion is, how to get out of it. How we got in is a matter of 
past history, and not to the point. Scolding, too, is a wom- 
anish pastime at the best — donH you think so.^'’^ 

‘‘ What I think, sir, is that you are a scoundrel said 
French Clinton, with additions not necessary to record. 
‘‘ You hav^e acted like a blackguard — as you are; and 
preaching as a pedant will not make amends. 'When I 
want your schooling I will ask for it. 

‘^And you shall have it,’" said Hugh Arrol, with his 
best manner. “ There is room for it.” 

On which French Clinton, afraid to trust himself longer 
in a presence which irritated him past his self-control, flung 
out of the room, and Mr. Arrol saw him no more. 

When he had gone, the banker wiped the moisture from 
his face, while his smile fell as if it had been a mask put 
on for the occasion. Few people would have recognized 
the bland, debonair, honey-voiced Hugh Arrol, who fasci- 
nated all women and won the good opinion of most men in 
the dark and frowning, livid and tempestuous being who 
now sat by his table, one hand thrust into his rich and 
curling locks, wliile he gnafvved fiercely at the nails of the 
other. 

“ That headstrong fool!” he said to himself. ‘‘ It was 
well for him I had his dirty papers to sell to any one! If I 
could have converted them into cash before now, with 
safety to myself, I would have done so; but I was held by 
fear. So much the better. I have given him over to a 
tighter hand than any other would have been. Fasten will 
pinch him — let him! It is no affair of mine; and that 
wyvern wants his claws cut. If I had kept all the other 
securities that have been given me, as I kept his, things 
.would look a little brighter for me than they do. But vive 
la bagatelle /” he said aloud, smoothing his hair, preening 
his mustache, and composing his handsome face to its 
ordinary smoothness. While we live, let us live. It is 
time enough to cast up our accounts when the day of 
reckoning comes! I am sorry for that little fellow at Clear 
View; but needs must when the devil drives — and he has 
driven me at a spanking pace for the last five or six years! 
And I am not out of the wood yet. Quite the contrary, I 
am deeper and deeper in it; and I foresee only one thing 
left me: that night journey by express — name and identity 
lost — the dark eyes and olive gardens of beautiful Anda- 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


311 


lusia— and English fogs and east winds left behind me, as 
a memory; like the securities of my fair clients 1'" 

In which category of future chances and circumstances 
he forgot his wife as if she had never been. 

When he remembered her he smiled. 

I wonder which she will stick to?"" he said to himself. 
“ I fancy to me. That mediaeval ape has not backb’one 
enough. Besides, he has turned traitor, and has gone off 
to fresh fields. What a muddle it all is! And the purists 
who howl when the door flies open — as sometimes it does!"" 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE OLIVE-BRANCH. 

Fortune, Justice, Love, are blind. So at least runs the 
legend; but most men"s experience goes to prove that they 
not unfrequently peer from beneath their bandages, and 
wink a wicked eye at a favorite candidate. Setting this 
■aside, if these three deities are blind, so is Pride — stone- 
blind to others; seeing only itself ; conscious only of its own 
sensations; contemplating its own center like the Buddha 
who sits on the lotus-leaf. 

'N’o one was ever more completely blinded by pride than 
my Lady J ane. Long years of local supremacy had acted 
like an Indian spell, and her mental eyes were held so that 
she saw only what her familiar demon — this biologizing 
passion — chose that she should see. Even during the life- 
time of her mother-in-law, sweet Margaret French, my 
lady, though but the wife of the heir-apparent, had, by 
virtue of her title, stood a head and shoulders taller than 
the queen consort reigning at Clinton. And now, when 
she herself had come into possession, her head towered very 
high indeed, and all the rest were like ants and pismires at 
her feet. She did honestly consider herself to be of a 
different flesh and blood from ordinary humanity — china to 
their clay. And in this belief she could not imagine that 
anything she might do would be held as an intrusion or 
resented as a freedom. If she chose to hold out the olive- 
branch to an enemy, for instance, it was not within her 
calculations that this other should reject it, sniffing at the 
berries and pronouncing them unfit for use. Thus, when 
she was minded to hold out the olive-branch to Paston 


312 


PASTOK CAKEW^ 


Oarew, b}" making an unrequested call on him, she thought 
that she should simply fill him with gratitude for her con- 
descension, and prepare the way for a long chapter of 
mutual amenities. It never occurred to her that the house- 
keeper’s son should snif at her berries, or haply accept 
them as tribute rather than donations. 

“ Ethel,” she said one day, not long after this crushing 
blow had been delivered, ‘‘ I want you and Sophia to come 
with me to-day to Mock-Beggar. lam going to call on 
Mr. and Miss Carew.” 

‘‘I am so glad!” said Ethel, impulsively, thinking of 
Lanfrey, and taking this as an abandonment of the whole 
line of opposition. 

I do not see why you should be so particularly glad,” 
snapped my Lady Jane. 

“ I like Miss Carew so much!” said Ethel, in apology, 
‘‘ and I always thought, with Lanfrey, it would be so much 
better if we knew her openly and frankly like any one 
else. ” 

‘‘I think you and Lanfrey are both mad about that 
girl,” said Lady Jane, peevishly. 

She was one of those women who desire acquiescence 
only — not enthusiasm, nor pleasure beyond the limits of 
their own mark; just acquiescence, and as little exaggera- 
tion as opposition. 

“ She is very sweet, mother; indeed she is — believe me!” 
said Ethel, in her quality of advocate for Lanfrey ’s sake. 

“ Well, so she may be, and yet not worth all the fuss you 
make about her,” was the mother’s reply; for she too had 
her private plans, as we know, and she must not saw the 
branch on which she hoped to sit. 

‘‘ Why am I to go, mother?” asked Sophia, to whom, 
not knowing the real state of things, the whole Carew 
drama was supremely uninteresting. 

‘‘My dear, you are to do as I wish,” said Lady Jane 
for 'answer; and Sophia, who could brave most things calm- 
ly enough, could not brave .her mother’s voice when she 
spoke like this — as if she had a membrane in her throat 
which made her words come fiat; like the wooden fioat 
that keeps the water steady in the pail. 

French would not go. He had yielded so far to the 
necessities of the case as to give Lady Jane her head; but 
for himself he stood still and absolutely refused to pull with 


MILLIONAIEE AKD MISER. 


313 


her. And Maurice, too, declined. His folly in the wood 
was too strongly stamped on his mind, and must be in 
Yetta^s remembrance, to make his visit advisable, or his 
presence tolerated. So he put his refusal on the ground of 
the greater way to be made by his mother ^s tact unaided 
and unhindered; and Lady Jane thought his argument 
reasonable, and allowed it to stand. 

Thus it was that she set off with her two daughters only, 
and the cards of her husband and son in lieu of their per- 
sons. 

She found both father and daughter at home, and was 
ushered into the drawing-room where she had passed the 
best years of her married life — those early ones of trial 
doubled with rapture proper to the acute' stage, and those 
later of calmer complexion, when friction has worn itself 
to smoothness and rapture is reduced to a m.emory. 

It was a real pain to Lady Jane and her daughters to go 
to this place where they had lived for so long, and note the 
changes that had been made. Manifest improvements are 
for the most part decried by old sojourners; and when the 
changes are not improvements, but contrariwise, undoubted 
blemishes, the spirit receives a shock which is as painful as 
a physical blow. The showy ornamentation of the fa9ade 
hurt the more refined taste of the lady as a discord hurts 
the ear of the musician. The proofs of skimp and post i die,' 
too evident to be overlooked, were as degrading to her 
moral sense as so many verbal lies. The whole thing was 
too manifestly set forth for show to be tolerable to one of 
true blood who liked things real, solid, substantial, sincere; 
and nothing was well kept — which was the crowning 
offense of all. Under-handed as the house was, the serv- 
ants were not able to keep it in that state of cleanliness 
which IS in itself a beauty, as well as a mark of refinement. 
And a strict mistress and keen-eyed housekeeper like Lady 
Jane caught the signs of neglect as quickly as she caught 
those of make-believe. Though the day was cold and raw 
even for the season, there was no fire in the drawing-room; 
but the servant turned the screw, and set light to those 
horrible clinkers which mock the sense with the simulacrum 
of a wholesome fire. Paston had calculated the cost, and 
had ‘determined on the ultimate superior economy of gas 
and clinkers over coals and wood. The former could Le 
lighted in a moment and extinguished in a moment; the 


314 


PASTON CAEEW. 


latter had to burn up, be kept alive, and finally burn out 
—the first stage and the last not profiting the householder, 
only helping to fill the pockets of the coal-merehant, who, 
as a tradesman, was naturally an enemy. Hence he had 
put in a stove for gas and clinkers; and he did not trouble 
himself about the amount of warmth he got out of the 
arrangement. 

After a time Paston came in — Yetta had come down be- 
fore. He was more frigid, wooden, reserved, than was even 
usual with him; his mask was more impenetrable, his 
mummy-like bearing more pronounced. He greeted Lady 
Jane and her daughters without the slightest tinge of that 
social surprise which would have been only natural, all 
things considered. The lady might have been a laundress 
come to ask for orders, or some one parted from half an 
hour ago, for all the emotion that he displayed; and the 
first check her rampant pride received was in the immova- 
ble stolidity of the man she thought she could manipulate 
at her pleasure as soon as she put her hand to the work. 
As it was, she was soon made to feel that she was attempt- 
ing to mold a bar of iron — to fashion by nice little pattings 
and pullings a block of ice into the likeness of a man. 

‘‘ I have been long in calling, Mr. Carew,-’^ began Lady 
Jane, whose color deepened on her cheeks, and even touched 
the pointed end of her finely shaped nose. “ But you know 
the distressiugfamily tragedy that took place just about the 
time, I think, of your arriving among us.^^ 

Paston made a slight inclination with his head. It ex- 
pressed assent and indifference, and it did not hold out so 
much as a reed for a balancing-pole, a straw for a raft. 
Lady Jane had to go on by herself if she meant to go on at 
all. Ethel and Yetta were together on the ottoman; 
Sophia was near her mother; Paston sat facing them, on a 
hard, straight-backed chair, in which he held himself as 
stiff and upright as if indeed his spine had been hammered 
out of a rod of steel. 

‘‘I see you ha\^e made a great many alterations here,^^ 
Lady Jane began again, not knowing on what else to start 
a fresh conversational hare. 

“ A few,^^ said Paston Oarew. 

It all looks strange to my eyes,’^ she said. ‘‘We had 
been so long accustomed to this room in blue, and now it 
is sage green. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 315 

‘‘Yes, sage green/^ said Paston, looking at the walls as 
if seen for the first time. 

“ You like the place, do you not?^^ asked my Lady Jane. 

“ I like it,^^ answered Paston; 

“ It is such a lovely view!"^ she said. 

“ Yes, it is,'’^ he answered. 

“ Do you go much on the river?^^ she asked. 

“ Not much/^ he answered. 

“We used to go out a great deal.^^ 

The silence made by her pause Paston did not attempt to 
break. 

“We had a great many boats. 

Still the same silence. 

“ How many boats had we, Sophia?^^ 

“ Four, I think, mother,^^ answered Sophia. 

“ Four boats. That made quite a little flotilla,^^ said my 
lady, with an uneasy laugh. The strain was begininng to 
tell. 

“ Quite, said Paston, with a mental rider — “ For which 
cause, among others, I have your title-deeds in my posses- 
sion!” 

“ The Beat is a very picturesque river,^^ said Lady Jane. 

“ Very,” said Paston. 

“ It is a beautiful country altogether.'’^ 

“It is.” 

“ You know it well, of course?-’^ 

Paston narrowed his eyes to a mere line, ana set his face 
to a yet grimmer immobility. 

“ I do not know it well,” he answered; and my lady felt 
rebuked, and, as she afterward expressed it, sat upon. 

“Was he such an idiot,” she said, passionately, to her 
husband, when giving the details of her visit, with ampli- 
fications, “ as to iniagine peopb did not know who he was, 
to pretend this ignorance? What an insult to our com- 
mon sense!” 

To which French answered, as might have been expected 
he would: “I have always told you, Jane, you can not 
make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear; and other creatures 
than ostriches stick their heads into the sand and fancy no 
one sees them; Paston Carewis the sow’s ear for one part, 
and the ostrich for the other. And our fate has thrown us 
into his hands!” 


316 


PASTON OAREW^ 


And then he swore; and further rational conversation 
was scattered to the winds. 

“ You have lived long in India, have you not?^^ then 
asked my lady, trying to make another diversion. 

“ Yes,^^ said Paston. 

“ Are the people quiet now?^^ 

“ They were in my district, he said. 

“ What was your district?^"’ she asked. 

“ North of Bombay,'’^ he answered; and again Lady 
Jane felt baffled and sat upon. 

Still she must not be discouraged. She had come pre- 
pared to do a certain thing— make friends with Paston 
Carew — and she must not let herself be turned aside from 
her project. But this talk was becoming a torture, as Pas- 
ton meant that it should be. He had to punish my lady, 
and make her understand that if she thought she was con- 
descending by this tardy recognition of his existence, he did 
not — but rather the reverse. As the Clintons had chosen 
to keep away for all these months, passing now into the 
second year, they might still keep away. This calling on 
him, now that he held their title-deeds, was not for him 
but for themselves — not from respect but from fear. 

“ I hope we shall see you and Miss Carew at Clinton,^ ^ 
then said Lady Jane, after a pause. 

Paston bowed, so slightly as to be almost imperceptible. 

“ My husband was sorry that he could not come with 
me,^^ she continued; ‘‘ so was my son. Captain Clinton; 
but they were imfortunately engaged, and I am charged 
with their apologies. 

Again Paston bowed in the same slight, almost imper- 
ceptible way as before. 

“ But you will, I hope, come to Clinton all the same,'’^ 
said my Lady Jane. 

‘‘ Thank you/’ said Paston. 

Your daughter is quite a favorite among us,^^ said 
Captain Clinton^s mother. 

Paston looked at Yetta as his acknowledgment of the 
words. His glance at least showed that he had heard them; 
which was all he cared to show, and more than he thought 
Lady Jane deserved. 

“ Mr. Clinton told me of her courage one day on the 
fell,^^ she continued. 

“ Yes?^^ said Paston. 


MILLIOIS^-AIEE AND MISEE. 


317 


‘‘ She is a superb horsewoman^, I hear/^ said Lady Jane. 

“ She rides/’ said Paston. 

“ And plays well, and has a charming voice?’’ 

‘‘ She plays and sings/’ was his reply. 

“ My daughters play and sing also; she must practice 
duets with them. ’ ’ 

Oh, Lady Jane! and that Begum and the nautch-girl in 
the dim distance of the past! ‘ 

You can sing with her, Sophia, ” said my lady. Your 
voice, I am sure, will blend with hers. My daughters are 
devoted to music,” she added, turning to Mr. Carew; 

and it is so nice for young people to have their pursuits 
in common.” 

To this Paston made no kind of reply. He neither 
bowed nor looked, neither narrowed his eyes nor made his 
mask even a trifle grimmer. He simply sat like a block, 
with lack-luster orbs looking straight before him, and a 
face as void of expression as a blank sheet of paper. 

“ I hope you will let her come and spend a long day with 
us soon. My daughters would be so -glad for her to 
practice with them. ” 

Lady Jane looked at Sophia. Sophia said, very coldly, 
‘‘I hope so.” Whereat Paston glanced at her furtively, 
and with the faintest approach to u, smile said, curtly, 
‘‘Thanks.” 

Lady Jane’s natural temper began to reassert itself. She 
really could not go on with this ! It was too embarrassing, 
too annoying, too degrading even ! She would make one 
more shot, and if she brought nothing down by that she 
would go — and she would never come back. 

She forced her lips into a wintery smile as she turned once 
more to her mute tormentor, and said, as graciously as she 
could command herself to say: “I hope now the ice is 
broken, Mr. Carew, that we may be good friends and 
neighbors together. Our society is too small to admit of 
gaps.” 

Then Paston opened his eyes like two flaming orbs of 
fire, and-Iooked at her with a mixture of scorn and hatred 
that fairly appalled her. It was just one brief glance, but 
it was a glance so withering, so consuming, it took away 
her breath, and seemed to reduce her to spiritual ashes. A 
whole world of menace, reproach, declaration of war, re- 
fusal of peace, was in that look; and never in her life before 


318 


PASTOK CAREW, 


had a man’s eyes so demoralized the proudest woman in 
Felf.shire. 

Then he half shut his eyes, as his manner was, and in 
his coldest and deadest way said: “ The society here is cer- 
tainly not extensive ” — which was the sole acknowledgment 
he made to my lady’s gracious offer. 

After this she knew that she was simply wasting her time 
and dropping her pride in fragments at the feet of this in- 
human monster, as she afterward called him. She had 
gone to him with her olive-branch, and he had plucked it 
bare of all its leaves, and had tossed back its berries as so 
many little globes of rottenness. She could not soften him. 
They had left it too long, and he had stiffened in his form. 
She acknowledged now. the mistake they had made; but 
how to repair it? We all have to abide by the consequences 
of our own acts. If we put our hands into the fire, we shall 
be burned; if we expose ourselves to the frost, we shall be 
frozen; and the Clintons had to bear now the results of 
their own mismanagement. They had made Paston Carew 
their enemy by their pride and neglect. Their tardy recog- 
nition could not make him their friend. 

And he had their title-deeds in his pocket; and his lawyer 
had written to them giving them notice that he meant to 
foreclose the mortgage. 

Poor Lady Jane! This was where their pride as Clin- 
tons had brought them — to the footstool of Patty Carew ’s 
bastard son, while he wiped his feet on their ermine, and 
treated their famous wyvern as of no more nobility than a 
carrion-crow. 

What hoots the tears of the mortified, the indignation of 
the humiliated ? Bridled and bitted by circumstances, rid- 
den hard by enmity, who can resist? No one! The mas- 
ter’s heel spurs the poor heaving fiank; the master’s whip 
stings the quivering nerves; his cruel will urges forward 
the hapless creature to that abyss wherein it will be forced 
to leap to its own destruction — and nothing short of a mir- 
acle can avert the ruin destined and designed. 

Paston Carew had this place of master; and for the first 
time Lady Jane, and through .her, French, understood in 
all its cruelty the nature of the man with whom they had 
to deal, and the inevitable ruin that lay before them. Their 
only hope was now in Yetta. If she could be induced to 
marry Maurice! What wickedness that Lanfrey should 


MILLIOKAIRB AKD MISER. 


319 


have disturbed this possible combination, and rendered 
more difficult than need have been this chance, at the best 
so terribly difficult and so fearfully uncertain! An alterna- 
tive once flashed across Lady Janets mind, but she put it 
away as one puts away a temptation of the devil — as an in- 
justice both unnatural and un motherly. Another thought 
took its place; but this too she rejected; though not before 
she had sharply rebuked Sophia for her silence during that 
ghastly call, and complained of her undutifulness in not 
helping in those uphill efforts to make things pleasant. 

To which Sophia had answered pertly, and made her 
mother feel she rather despised her than not for her mean- 
spiritedness. 

Fasten Oarew allowed a fortnight to elapse before he re- 
turned this call. Then he drove over with his daughter, 
but only to leave their cards. He did not ask if the fam- 
ily were at home; he simply left their cards; and drove 
away again from the old home, which in a short time was 
to be once more his own. 

As they were driving through the park they met French 
and Maurice riding together. The two men stopped, ex- 
pecting that on this sign Paston would stop too; but on the 
groom looking back for orders, and seeing only the fishy 
eyes and expressionless face of his master, the coachman 
went on; and, save the formal salute, no more notice of this 
intended grace was taken by the enemy. 

That cur!^^ said French. 

“ That devil!^^ said Maurice. 

But Paston smiled to himself, and if he said anything it 
was below his breath: “ My foes conquered at last; and 
they know itr"" 

Yetta said nothing. She only turned very pale and 
wished that Maurice would leave Beaton Brows forever, 
not only for these short returns to duty, which now took 
him away. She hated to see him now after that insult in 
the wood, which, in spite of Mrs. Ellacombe, was always 
somewhat of a specter between her and Lanfrey. If only 
he would leave and Lanfrey could come back! What a 
strange confusion it all was! There was not a straight 
thread in the whole entangled skein. Even her love for 
Lanfrey, and his for her, had in it that element of the for- 
bidden which made it less comforting than disturbing; and 
the uncertainty hanging round the future turned to sorrow 


320 


PASTON CAREW. 


and anxiety what should have been only the glad assurance 
of the present. 

After a time Paston looked at her with an odd expression 
in his eyes. She could not read it, accustomed though she 
was to his moods, reflected in the very immobility of his 
face — the very want of life and light in his filmed and fishy 
eyes. 

‘‘ Can you tell me,^^ he said, blandly, ‘‘ why you dislike 
Captain Clinton so much? What has he done to annoy 
you? Anything? Or is it only a question of Doctor Fell 
and instinctive antipathy? 

Yetta^s face, which had paled with the reflection of her 
former fear when they had met the Clintons, now flushed, 
as was usual with her when disturbed. 

“ I suppose it is Doctor Fell and instinctive antipathy, 
she said, with a feeble attempt at pla 3 rfulness. 

“ Yet you could cut the Gordian knot if you would, said 
Paston, with the same artificial blandness as before. “ If 
you would marry this young man, I could afford to let 
things stand as they are. My revenge would take another 
and a gentler form.^-’ 

‘‘ I do not understand you,^^ said Yetta, with a scared 
look. ‘‘ What revenge do you mean, father? What good 
would it do to any one if I were to marry Captain Clinton? 
— which I would rather die than do. 

“■ It would simply save the family of your friend Lan- 
frey,’^ said Paston, coolly. ‘‘1 have them in my power, 
my child, and I can ruin them when I will. Then he 
added, with a flash in his eyes such as Lady Jane had seen: 

And I will it!^^ 

But how? in what way? what does it all mean? she 
said again, more and more scared, more and more with the 
feeling of sudden storm and shipwreck all about her. 

‘‘ Have I not already told you that the Clintons once did 
me an irreparable injury?"^ answered Paston. They are 
my born enemies, and chance has given me now the power 
of ruining them. I can sell them up and evict them like 
so many pauper cotters in Ireland. And I will. Then you 
and I will live here at Clinton, and they will be beggars. 
But if you were to marry this Maurice, I would forego my 
own just revenge, my own present ownership, for the sake 
of your future. I would keep them in possession, that you 
might one day be the queen of all. What do you say?^^ 


MILLIONAIHE AKD MISER. 


321 


I would rather die than marry Captain Clinton/^ said 
Yetta, with energy. After a pause she added: “ Engaged 
to one brother, how could I, father, be the wife of another? 
It is sinful to think of — how much more to plan for and 
dor^ ^ 

Consciences are elastic,^^ said Paston, dryly. ‘‘ Per- 
haps even the young man Lanfrey would consent to the 
sacrifice to preserve the estate intact to his family. There 
is more to live for in life than a boy and girl love; and fam- 
ily weal demands its sacrifices. 

“But you will not, father — you will not ruin them!'^ 
said Yetta, taking his hand. “ For my sake, your daugh- 
ter, who loves one of them better than her life, you will be 
generous and merciful?^^ 

His face slightly relaxed. Then he hardened it again. 

“I make no promises/^ he said, coldly. “I shall be 
guided by events. 


CHAPTER XXXV.: 

OFFERIMG TERMS. 

Accustomed to Hugh ArroFs easy creditorship, French 
Clinton had been, like his father before him, a lazy debtor 
and a lax paymaster. He had paid when he could, without 
too great inconvenience to himself or too severely mulcting 
his private pleasures, and never until the banker had 
dunned him in his graceful and smiling way so often that 
for very shame he was forced to give something — on ac- 
count. Now he had to deal with a man to whom Draco 
was pitiful and Rhadamanthus flexible; and the former 
loose and easy methods were as much out of date as offer- 
ing figs to Bacchus for a harvest of fruit, or sops to Cer- 
berus for a safe pass-by. 

He was but a fortnight behindhand with his interest when 
a letter came from the London lawyer demanding an in- 
stant remittance. This was after Lady Janets conciliatory 
visit — when her olive-branch had been so disdainfully han- 
dled, and her flag of truce put to such base uses. There- 
fore, also, after Paston ^s return visit to the Hall, when he 
had simply left three of his own cards and one of Yetta"’ s, 
in dry acknowledgment of the tardy grace that had been 
accorded him. 


B22 


PASTOK CAEEW; 


It was impossible for the Clintons to show fight. They 
were like the besieged whose supplies have been cut off and 
whose arsenal is empty. They had nothing to fight with, 
and they could not continue the war. It must be uncon- 
ditional surrenderor the la^t attempt at conciliation. Each 
was painful enough — horns as both were of a dilemma by 
which the Clinton pride must be tossed into space, or the 
Clinton supremacy rended into rags. Still, there was no 
via media, seeing that money was not to be found, and that 
payment of the interest so ruthlessly, demanded was as 
impossible as pearls in snail shells or diamonds in kitchen 
cinders. 

“ It is of no good to try,^^ said French, in answer to his 
wife^s proposal that he and Maurice should go over to 
Mock-Beggar and do what they could to appease this dragon 
with a few sweet cakes of politeness, failing the solid flesh 
of a check. He has sworn to ruin us, and he will. We 
shall only humble ourselves to no good. 

‘‘Will you give up before you have tried everything 
asked Lady Jane, with a woman^s persistency of purpose, 
and her fond belief in influences which would be miracu- 
lous if real. “I will not believe that this man, sprung 
from nothing as he is, can be indifferent to our offers of 
social countenance — he who ought to feel honored if we 
took him as a servant 

“ You do not go with the times, Jane, ^ ’ said French, bit- 
terly. “ Who cares for birth, or family, or long posses- 
sion, or land, or name, or for all that once made the differ- 
ence between the gentry and the canaille ? Ho one! It 
is all now only money — got how you like — in trade, by 
usury, shoddy, slavery, any way best known to the devil; 
and the old gentry go to the wall and stick there. 

“ Hot in a small country place like this, French! Here 
the gentry still hold their own,-’^ persisted Lady Jane. 
“ And Mr. Carew can not be so entirely uninfluenced by 
general feeling as not to yield if we press. I)o go, French! 
Be guided by me; go — you and Maurice — and be very nice 
and genial. We have always your poor father’s death to 
fail back on, you know. ” 

“ Bather a stale excuse,” said French, dryly. “ A rea- 
son more than twelve months old does not wash very well 
if put to it. ” 

Well, if you will not do this, what will you do?” asked 


MILLIONAIKE MISER. 


323 


Lady Jane, with a gesture as if flinging away her weapons. 

Gan you pay the interest? If so, go your own way and 
do not heed my advice. , If you can not — 

She shrugged her shoulders and looked hopeless. 

“ I would heed your advice, and follow it like a shot, if 
I thought it would do any good,^^ said French. ‘‘ But [ do 
not. I think it will simply humble me, and leave things 
where they are now.^^ 

Try,^^ said Lady Jane. 

He must be a bigger fool than he looks if he does not 
see through it ali,^^ grumbled French; ‘‘ and, hang me, 
Jane, if I canP'’ he said, with a strange outburst of emo- 
tion. I would rather cut my throat than kowtow to that 
low-born scoundrel — Patty Oarew’s bastard son!^^ 

“ I know how hard it is, French!’^ said Lady Jane, with 
more tenderness than was usual with her; ‘‘ but it is our 
last chance. If we can not soften him by kindness — if we 
can not buy him over — we are lost. We must sell the es- 
tate and leave the country, ruined and disgraced. Oh!’^ 
she cried, with the ineffectual self-reproach of a proud per- 
son brought to recognize by hard results the mistakes of the 
past, ‘‘if only I could have foreseen anything of this, I 
would have been the first to cultivate these people, and I 
would have made Maurice marry the girl! Jt is all too 
late now — too late — and we are ruined!^'’ 

■ And with this she broke down; and, putting her hands 
over her face, burst into such tears as French never re- 
membered to have seen from her before. 

Inexpressibly pained and shocked, he took her in his 
arms, soothing her as he best could. 

“ DorPt break down, Jane,^"’ he said, his own manly 
voice with a suspicious tremor in it. “ If you break down 
like this, what is to become of usr You are my only sup- 
port, as you know. I have leaned on you all my life, and 
you must not fail me now. I should be a poor creature 
without you, Jane; so cheer up, old dear! Things may 
come round, who knows? and I will go and call on that 
devil now, as you wish. Maurice and I will go. Perhaps 
Maurice may be able to drive Lanfrey out of the field — put 
his nose out" of joint, and marry the girl for himself. That 
would be the best way to end it all, as you said from the 
first. 

Which was a concession of his former position all round. 


324 


PASTON- CAREW, 


from base to summit, and a handing over of every indi- 
vidual stronghold of principle hitherto maintained. This 
was one of the wife^s greatest victories. Among the many 
she had had during their married life she had never scored 
one so complete as this. 

If she sticks to Lanfrey — said Trench, after a pause. 

Well?^^ asked Lady Jane, looking into his face. 

The thought in her own mind sought yet feared to find 
its answer, its assurance, in his. 

Trench hesitated. 

“Maurice might be generous,’^ he said, after a pause. 
“ It would be a great deal to ask of him. It would break 
his heart and ruin his life; but the family would be saved. 

“ I could not see him heart-broken nor his life ruined, 
said the mother, again quivering down into tears. 

“ But things would be as bad if he did not yield, said 
Trench. “ We should have to go all the same, and we 
should gain nothing by his refusal. 

“True,^^ said Lady Jane, again with that action of 
throwing down her arms and abandoning herself to circum- 
stances. “We must all die together 

“We forget one thing, however, returned Trench. 
“ This man, if he buys up the estate, can give it where he 
likes. If he chooses to let his daughter marry Lanfrey, 
there is no law to prevent him. He can make Lanfrey the 
heir as he pleases."’^ 

“ And if he does Lanfrey will lose his mother forever,^*’ 
said Lady Jane, bitterly and inconseq uently. “I would 
not acknowledge as my son one who founded his happiness 
on the ruin of his family. 

“ Still, Jane, it would be a Clinton. The younger 
branch, truly, but always a Clinton at Clinton V ^ 

“ I wish we were all dead!^^ said Lady Jane, passionately. 

Hampered by these fateful circumstances and unable to 
escape, she took refuge, woman-like, in blind despair. 
While there was hope she could hold on and find abundant 
ways and appliances. If she believed in the result, she 
could open paths and weave schemes innumerable. But 
once convinced that all these were useless, then she suc- 
cumbed; and the spirit in which she spoke now was em- 
phatically that of suicide. 

Her sudden despair braced Trench to this last endeavor. 
He would make this supreme trial, which was essentially 


MILLION-AIRE .AND MISER. 


325 


an appeal. He would do as she advised. He and Maurice 
would go to Mock-Beggar, and once more offer the olive- 
branch, and hold aloft the flag of truce. It was gall and 
wormwood; but what of that? Have we not all to swallow 
our bitter potions and submit to pain? And the proud are 
no more exempt than the lowly. Still, the trial is more 
agonizing to those who are less inured; and to fall from 
tlie battlements of a castle is a deeper drop than to stumble 
over the threshold of a hovel. Nevertheless, French must 
dree his weird as a brave man should; and having drawn 
his lot from the hands of fate, he must obey the mandate 
written on the card. 

“ The only thing to be done,^’ he said to Maurice, ‘‘ is 
to go to that villain and see what fair words will do with 
him. We can not fight any longer, my boy, so we must 
parley. It is a bitter alternative; but you know the old say- 
ing, and we must acquit ourselves like gentlemen, though 
we are driven by old Nick. 

“You would consent now, sir, to a marriage with Miss 
Carew?"” asked Maurice. 

He could not resist the sarcasm, though in truth his. 
heart was sore for his father as well as for himself. 

Standing quite apart from the affair — looking at it 
technically, as it were — artistically, and without reference 
to himself — it was grievous to him to see the humiliation 
of his father; that fine, keen-visaged gentleman, with his 
air of universal proprietorship, and inherited regality of 
gentlehood, forced to submit to circumstances, enthroned 
in the person of Paston Oarew, the base-born owner of 
Mock-Beggar, and to all appearance so soon to be owner of 
the Hall, and the whole Clinton estate to boot. 

Ah, Maurice returned French, making a wry face 
which soon became a mournful kind of smile, “ we never 
know what we may not be brought to do! Misfortune 
makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows; but that it 
should ever have forced me to go over to Mock-Beggar, and 
offer my hand to Patty Carew^s ill-conditioned son, over- 
looking his insolence and anxious for his favor, is one of 
the strangest bits of what is called the irony of fate that a 
novelist could have imagined. No, I certainly would not 
object to your marriage with Miss Carew. On the con- 
trary, I should think myself well put of it if even the stipu- 


326 


PASTOJl’ CAREW. 


lation was that I had to resign and leave the Hall to you 
and your wife/ ^ 

‘‘It would always be the family/^ said Maurice, as if 
musing on the chance. 

“Always the family,” repeated French, thinking of 
Lanfreyand the translated heirship. 

“ I wish now we had given out a button-hole or two — 
made up to him a little — asyour mother says, said French, 
after a pause. 

“It would have been better if we could have foreseen, 
said Maurice; “ but you see, sir, that^s just it — we could 
not foresee. We did for the best at the time, and we were 
conquered— my mother with the rest.” 

“ So we were; but — but — He paused and sighed. 

“ No battle is lost till it is won. Let us see what we can 
do, said Maurice as they drove through the Mock-Beggar 
gates and up to the well-known hall-door of the old home. 

Flushed, ill at ease, unlike himself, usually so masterful 
and dominant, as became the acknowledged chieftain of a 
district, French went through the renovated hall, and into 
the room which, as Lady Jane said, had been blue in their 
day, and was now sage green in Paston’s. The mean fire 
of gas and clinkers was again lighted; and then the serv- 
ant went to summon his master and young mistress, all 
ablaze with curiosity to know what could have brought the 
Clintons, in these comparatively hurried relays, to the house 
they had taken over twelve months to visit. 

Yetta, who had seen their arrival from her window, kept 
close in her boudoir; so that Paston was alone when he 
went into the drawing-room from his study, and received 
his hereditary foes in the house that had been theirs and 
was now his. Thus the natural awkwardness of the meet- 
ing was deprived of any kind of grace-maker — any kind of 
velvet cushions, such as Yetta's sweet presence would have 
afforded. 

Paston Carew came in, clothed in the same humor as 
when Lady Jane had called — cold, impenetrable, imper- 
turbable. Step by step he had won his position; and this, 
veritably one of the proudest moments of his life, was not 
to be debased by any show of exultation, such as might sit 
well on a butcher-boy translated from a “ rounder” to be 
a master, but would be a confession of intrinsic weakness 
and servility in him. 


MILLIO^-AIRE AiirD MISER. 327 

French, although the full gentleman where this million- 
aire was only the half, was considerably the more flustered 
of the two. He could not bear his degradation so calmly 
as Paston Oarew bore his success and dignity; and between 
Ills natural pride which revolted at too great condescension, 
and his desire not to make a mess of things by too great 
haughtiness, his soul was what the Scotch called “ Whum- 
melled,^^ and he was like a pilot who has lost his bearings. 

The meeting was constrained, and the greeting was no 
easier. French went forward with his large well-shaped 
hand held stiffly out, and Paston Carew gave his as if it had 
been really the dead flsh it simulated: Maurice did as his 
father had done — made two steps forward as their host 
came into the room, and offered his hand — also to receive 
the dead flsh in return. There they all stood in an awk- 
ward group, as if ranged for a triangular duel, waiting for 
the spirit to move some one among them to take the first 
shot. 

It was French who first spoke. 

1 have not called before, Mr. Carew," he began, ‘‘ for 
more reasons than one.^"’ 

Paston looked at the speaker — his lack-luster eyes having 
a kind of hideous fascination in them, a kind of freezing 
but compelling attraction as if they had inclosed the 
Gorgon’s head within their contracted pupils. He bent his 
head to imply hearing and understanding; but he said not 
a word which should help his guest out of the bog. 

“ For more reasons than one,” repeated French. 

Paston looked with a curious little air of 'inquiry. 

‘‘Yes?” he said, as an interrogation, and then left 
French to flounder, as he had left Lady Jane to flounder 
before him. 

“ There were reasons why any intercourse between our 
houses was undesirable-^indeed impossible,” French began 
again. 

“ And these are now removed?” returned, Paston. 

French felt as if he had been struck across the face. 

“ In part,” he said, scarcely knowing what he did say. 

“My grandfather’s death threw us out of the run of 
society,” put in Maurice, coming to his father’s rescue. 

“ Your long mourning signalized your grief,” said Pas- 
ton, in his driest way. 

“ And time slips by so quickly in a country place. If a 


S2S 


PASTON CAEEW. 


thing is not done at once, there is never the moment when 
it must be done!^^ said French, for further futile apology. 

‘‘Just so, answered Past on. 

“ But now that certain things have taken place, it is bet-^ 
ter that we should meet face to face,^^ continued French, 
suddenly abandoning his trenches and going straight out 
into the open. 

“ Yes?^^ was the reply. 

“You hold my securities, Mr. Carew,^^ began the coun- 
try gentleman, with well-suppressed emotion. “ It is bet- 
ter that we should treat this matter as principals — as 
friends,’^ he added, with an effort, “ than as simple debtor 
and creditor through the lawyer. 

Paston inclined his head, but said never a word. His 
heart was throbbing so that it visibly moved the lapels of 
his coat, and trembled through the folds of the handker- 
chief showing over the edge of the breast-pocket. He did 
not dare to trust his voice. It would have betrayed his 
weakness of exultation too clearly. 

“ Between gentlemen things can be better arranged than 
when one calls in the aid of a professional scoundrel, said 
French. 

He made a creditable attempt at a genial smile, but Pas- 
tone’s immovable face acted as a refrigerator, and froze the 
smile back to its original source — that pretense of security 
which is but the other name for doubt. It died down as 
quickly as it had risen; and French was once more floun- 
dering in the bog, not knowing where to place his feet, nor 
how to get on to firm land again. 

“ I am now your debtor, and you my creditor, he be- 
gan again. Still Paston Oarew did not reply. “ Times 
have been rather hard on me,^^ he continued, “ and I am 
pressed for the moment.-’^ 

“ Times are hard to us all,^^ said Paston Carew. “ I too 
am pressed.'’’ . 

‘^And not disposed to give me time?” asked French. 

“ I am not able. My disposition has no voice in the 
matter,” he answered. 

His manner was a little softer than before. He began 
to play his fish. He wanted to see where he could land 
iiim. 

“You see, I have sunk a large sum in the mine,” con- 


MILLIONAIKE AND MISEE. 329 

tinned French; when that pays, I shall be in funds 
again/ ^ 

I hope it will pay/^ said Paston. 

Thank you. When it d.oes pay, I shall redeem all the 
mortgages,^'’ said French. 

‘‘ Which will be a relief to you, said Paston. 

“ By Jove, the old sinner is relenting thought French, 
and his heart opened yet a little wider to his foe. “ So 
that, I trust, we may see our way to a settlement which 
will satisfy both, and leave us without a scratch between 
us,^^ he cried aloud, cheerily. 

Paston narrowed his eyelids and smiled. It was an 
enigmatical smile; not one of simple expression — as one 
would say, cordial, expansive, kindly — but a smile of com- 
plex meaning, and one that French could not read. 

“ That would be my pleasure as well as yours, the mill- 
ionaire returned, still with that enigmatic smile on his 
face. If we can arrange our affairs so as not to leaVe a 
scratch between us, it will be by the blessing of God."’^ 

And our own hearty endeavor,^’ added French. 

He was as religious as a gentleman should be. It be- 
longed to his place and state to be unskeptical and ortho- 
dox; but he had the sense of individuality and power proper 
to a landed proprietor; and the blessing of God had to be 
won before it could be bestowed. 

‘‘ You do not wish to injure us, only to get your own,^^ 
said Maurice, as his contribution to the milder air blowing 
over the thorny wastes of the Clinton monetary obliga- 
tions. 

‘‘ Only to get my own,^^ repeated Paston, lowering his 
eyes. 

He dared not raise them. Master of the art of film and 
glaze as he was, he dared not risk the fracture of that 
spiritual pellicle, so that the true color should be dis- 
covered. He dared not let Maurice Clinton see in his eyes 
the one devouring desire, the all-absorbing thought, which 
had possessed him for so many years, “ My own; yes, 
only to get my own — -and Clinton is my own. So far as 
appearances went at this moment, things stood on velvet. 
French congratulated hir^self on having followed Lady 
Jane's advice: what a superlatively sensible wife and wom- 
an she was! He was quite pleased to find that Paston 
Carew was not half the bad fellow he had believed hini tp 


330 


PASTON CAKEW, 


be. After all, it was only his birth that was against him, 
though to be sure he had behaved badly enough about 
Mock-Beggar. 

‘‘ But, what the. deuce !'^ thought French, in his new-born 
satisfaction and generous belief; ‘‘ we must forgive and 
forget. We are all liable to make mistakes. And we our- 
selves have not been overfriendly to the fellow,^^'he went 
on to say, still to himself; “ but now 1 see he is not too 
hard-mouthed when he is properly handled, and I feel sure 
that we shall pull through. 

Which was exactly what Paston Carew meant him to 
think, and acted so that he should think. 

‘‘And your daughter?^ ’ asked French; “thatcharming 
Diana — how is sher^^ 

“ Well, I thank you,-’^ said Paston. 

“We have all lost our hearts to her, continued French. 
And here he spoke heartily, without the after-thought that 
consciously or unconsciously had run after his former words 
and ways. 

“ You are very kind,^^ said Paston, a little stiffly. “ She 
is a good girl.’’’’ 

“ She is a beautiful one,^^ said French. 

Paston glanced at Maurice. 

“ She is curiously like our princess,^ ^ said Maurice, whose 
face had flushed. 

“ Is she at home?^^ asked French. 

“ I will send to inquire,'’^ replied Paston, ringing the bell 
and telling the servant to ask if Miss Carew were at home, 
and if so, to desire her presence in the drawing-room. 

Naturally Yetta obeyed the summons. She would rather 
have done anything involving personal pain and sacrifice 
than go into the room where Maurice Clinton was to be 
found; but her father^s will washer law, and she girded up 
her spiritual loins and prepared for the encounter. 

Graceful and self-possessed, but as white as the snow 
which lay in patches on the ground, she came through the 
door- V/ ay and into the room where French and Maurice stood 
waiting for her entrance. The father of the man she loved, 
and of the man who had insulted her, came forward in his 
heartyand frankly admiring way; but Maurice was strange- 
ly moved, in spite of his manifest endeavors to be natural 
and simply gallant. Paston saw that he was. He saw, 
too, Yetta's repugnance, and how she shrunk when she 


MILLIOKAIKE AKD MISER. 


331 


had to give her hand to the younger man; though she had 
been friendly enough to the father. It was in one sense a 
mystery to him,^but in another it was a line of leading. 
He knew how he could twist to his own uses the cordiality 
and desire to propitiate, so plainly to be seen in French; 
and how he could work on Maurice’s emotion with Lan- 
frey’s confession. Both brothers were in love with the girl. 
He had only to pull the threads, and he could make the 
whole family dance at his pleasure. 

I should like you to come over and dine at the Hall,” 
then said French. ‘‘ When will you come, Mr. Carew.^” 

“ Have you any engagement, Yetta?” asked her father. 

I do not remember any, ” she half stammered for reply. 
She did not want to go to the Hall while Lanfrey was away 
— and that cruel kiss still throbbed on her arm. 

Paston smiled as he had smiled before. It would have 
taken one more astute than OEdipus to interpret the mean- 
ing of that smile. 

‘‘ We will leave it for your wife’s arranging,” he then 
said, courteously. ‘‘ These things belong to the ladies.” 

“ You are right,” said French, laughing. “ Lady Jane 
shall propose, and you will dispose.” 

‘‘ Like gods?” said Paston. 

French slightly frowned. He had not meant the appli- 
cation to be taken in its full sense. He thought it both 
presumptuous and blasphemous. 

And how is your younger son?” asked Paston, sud- 
denly. 

He had thrown aside the fish, both in eye and bearing, 
and was really quite genial and companionable. 

“ Well, thank you,” answered French, who had not had 
a line from him since that first letter, which he had sent 
back unopened. 

“ A most charming yoUng man — worthy, well-meaning, 
and upright,” said Paston, warmly. 

Yetta looked at her father with eyes that shone like blue 
lakes of love and gratitude. 

“ He has not much knowledge of material — much per- 
ception of possibility,” continued Paston, both benign and 
genial; “ but he is charming all the same. I have quite a 
tender feeling for him.” 

The flush on Maurice turned to a livid wash of many 
hues, French’s countenance fell. Yetta still looked at 


332 


PASTON CAKEW, 


her father with those lakes of love and gratitude; and Pas- 
ton played the benign well-wisher, the complimentary 
encomiast, with supreme effect. 

‘‘ He is a good felldw, but full of unworkable ideas,"" said 
French, with odd reluctance. “ We— that is, my elder son 
and I— laugh at him a little for his fads. He is a Toyn- 
bee Hall man, and has a whole cargo of amiable dreams 
which will have to be flung overboard if he is ever to do 
any good in life. That fellow there,"" laughing and point- 
ing to Maurice, “ is of a different stamp altogether — more 
practical by far."" 

‘‘ And without that cargo of amiable dreams by which 
his brother threatens to founder?"" asked Paston, with a 
smile. 

‘‘lam no dreamer, any way,"" said Maurice, quickly. 

I know the world too well for that waste of time; and 
my future career would not run if I were anything but 
practical."" 

“ Practical men are certainly the most satisfactory,"" 
observed Paston, slowly; then he added, with a look at 
Yetta, “ but the dreamers have the most fascination for 
women."" 

‘^'Not for sensible women,"" said French, hastily. 

‘‘ My dear Mr. Clinton, what women are sensible?"" said 
Paston. 

‘‘ Oh, I don"t quite agree with that,"" cried French; and 
Yetta said, Father! what a shame!"" at the same moment, 

■ ‘ Shall I exempt you?"" asked Paston of his daughter. 

Shall I make you the shining exception to the rule.^’" 

She blushed, not knowing how to take him, and said 
nothing; and then Paston traveled off suddenly to another 
subject, and the heart of the visit was dead. 

Soon after this the two men took their leave, and Paston 
and his daughter were alone. 

Then the man"s face changed, and the evil spirit he had 
battened down so carefully under closed hatches blazed out 
like fire in his face. He called his daughter to hijii and 
took her wrists in his hands, while he fixed his fiery eyes on 
hers so that they seemed to scorch her with their flames. 

We have conquered!"" he said, in a voice so changed 
from its usual quality and sound that Yetta would not have 
recognized it in the dark — “ we have conquered, my child! 
We have won the battle. You shall sleep at the Hall as it§ 


MILLIONAIKE AKD MISER. 


333 


mistress before the year is out; and these hounds shall beg 
their bread at your door!^^ 

He said this just as French, turning to his son, cried, 
cheerily: We are well out of that, Maurice. The old 

fellow was not such a ruffian as I expected he would be. 
He will come into line before we have done with him.^^ 

“ HonT be too confident, sir,^^ said Maurice, doubtfully. 
“ He is vicious, and all the more dangerous because he 
aifects a cordiality he does not feel. He will sell us yet. 
Our sheet-anclior is his daughter— and I am the one who 
will have to go to the wall if she sticks to Lanfrey,^^ he 
said below his breath, as his last words on the matter. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

FOR THE SAKE OF THE FAMILY. 

The dinner at Clinton Hall, to which the Carews were 
bidden, was royally arranged as befitted a function which 
ranked as a solemn social manifesto. All the aristoi of the 
place were asked, including various outlying notabilities, 
but excluding the Daymans and the Arrols. French was 
too angry with the faithless banker to forgive him, even 
though Aose dangerous money complications with Paston 
Carew seemed in such a fair way of settling themselves; 
and Lady Dayman ^s peculiar method of maintaining her 
smiling fair contentment as the wife of her black-wigged 
old January was becoming too notorious to be tolerated. 
But the Harcourts and the Ellacombes, the Gaysworthys 
and Fitz-George Standish, were among the more familiar of 
the guests invited to this dinner, which was essentially a 
well-dressed pow-wow to witness the burying of the hatchet 
and the smoking of the calumet — a secular Sanhedrim to 
ratify the admission within the Clinton gates of the prose- 
lyte who had so long stood without. 

Never had Yetta looked so lovely; never had Paston felt 
more exultant. Hitherto he had worked at the founda- 
tions; now he touched completion. He held the securities 
which, in a few months, would make Clinton his own; for 
he laughed at the idea of the ultimate success of the mine 
which alone could save the estate. He had been sought to 
be propitiated by my Lady Jane, whom he had snubbed. 
He had been voluntarily visited by French, with that dash 


334 


PASTOK CAREW. 


of the suppliant and the arbiter in their respective relations 
which made his visit a virtual act of homage and surrender. 
And now he had been asked to dinner at his own old home, 
with this fashionable Sanhedrim to witness his admission 
into the Inner Temple of the Clinton friendship. 

He had kept his vow. He had brought these Clintons to 
his feet. Now he had only to beguile them with false 
hopes and torture them with suspense, before he finally 
struck them to the earth. It would be hell following on 
purgatory; and not that legendary Satan himself rejoiced 
more in the moral ruin and physical torment of his victims 
than Paston Carew rejoiced in the false hopes, the futile 
degradation, and the assured destruction of his hereditary 
enemies. 

In the apportionment of the guests. Lady Jane, who 
could not give herself to Paston — as the principal person- 
age was a right honorable who had to be propitiated — made 
him as much of a social pivot as she could by pairing him 
off with Sophia, and seating him next to herself. Maurice 
took in Yetta, who was placed between him and his father. 
As her gloved hand rested on his arm he felt her whole 
frame quiver, not with that girlish tremulousness which is 
so seductive in its naive emotion, but with the cold shudder 
that betrays abhorrence. He understood the meaning of 
that shudder — what man skilled in woman^s ways does not 
know the difference between shyness and dislike? It was 
not a pleasant experience for one so successful in his love 
affairs as Miurice had been; but he was honest enough to 
acknowledge to himself that he scarcely wondered at it, all 
things considered, and that really it was only what might 
have been expected. Being so, he had something to fight 
against, and something to win. 

He heroically suppressed the savage wish to take by force 
- some rude caress which her repugaance roused in him as in- 
demnification and redress, and set himself to fascinate her 
by gentler means. When he chose, Mauribe could make 
himself supremely charming, and he was supremely charm- 
ing now. Gentle in speech, tender in bearing, with a cer- 
tain subtle yet manly self-abasement, like the penitence of 
a drunken hero restored to sobriety — not showing aught of 
his former bold and brutal admiration, but treating her as 
Ealeigh might have treated Elizabeth — he did his best to 
make the girPs first visit to Clinton pleasant, and to efface 


MILLIOKAlliE AKD MISEE. 


335 


the last trace of his former misdemeanor. His wish to 
please and be forgiven was so evident that Yetta would have 
been inliuman had she not met liim, if not half, yet at least 
some part of the way. And when he turned the conversa- 
tion on Lanfrey, and spoke of his ability, his goodness, his 
superiority to himself, his future certain grand career at 
the bar, he conquered, as if he had been a ^cond Alexan- 
der raising from the ground the mother df Darius. After 
all, he was Lanfrey’s brother; and Lanfrey was Iyer lover 
— her divine delight, her future husband! 

Maurice wondered to himself how it would all end. 

Was ever woman in this humor wooed? — was ever woman 
in this humor won?^^ Could she be wooed and won on 
these terms? or should he have to elf ace himself for the 
sake of the family, and let Lanfrey take possession? — sup- 
posing that old scoundrel resolved to punish them, after all, 
which perhaps he would not do now, after their condescen- 
sion in throwing him these social sops. In any case it was 
worth the trial. If he could oust Lanfrey he was justified 
in doing so — in virtue of the rights of primogeniture. If 
he could not, he must be the Clinton Curtius and save the 
estate by his own sacrifice. 

Meanwliile Paston, who had drawn out his plan of action 
as clearly as a bi t of precis writing, was no longer that 
wooden kind of sphinx, inscrutable and impenetrable, he 
loved to make himself appear. He was amiable, and 
amenable to treatment. He smiled when my lady smiled; 
returned well-rounded replies to her queries; kept up the 
ball of conversation with the dignity of an embassador, the 
astuteness of a trained diplomatist, the pleasantness of a 
professional diner-out; and altogether showed himself in 
such a favorable light that Lady Jane was glad to drop the 
last rag of her former resentment. She charitably sup- 
posed that his grumpiness on the day when she had called 
had been due to indisposition, and forgave the effects of a 
lazy liver and cross-grained digestion. Men who have lived 
long in India always have these cross-grained digestions 
and lazy livers; and Major Chutnee is a type with many 
followers. 

Her new guest had a great deal to say about everything. 
He was full of talk of the most ecumenical kind; but on 
reflection Lady Jane bad to acknowledge that he had net 
tossed so much as one j^nvate opinion on to the cairn of 


33 () PASTOX CAKEW., 

general discussion* He talked of India, its customs, castes, 
beliefs, population; but he did not tell her where he had 
lived, nor what he had done, -nor what conclusion he had 
come to on any question whatever. She could not draw 
the very shadow of an admission from him by an v thing she 
assumed, denied, asserted; as little as she could have drawn 
a badger by, whisking a bunch of feathers before his hole; 
and Sophia, though his own immediate partner, did not try. 
He as bright as a plate of polished steel, and as little 
transparent — of exquisite politeness, but wdthout loop-holes 
or handles. 

Babs, sitting opposite, tried in vain to make play across 
the table with her copartner in spiritualism; and Mrs. 
Oaysworthy watched her as one handsome and experienced 
cat might watch another not quite so deft in the art of 
mousing. Paston was as little to be drawn by Octavia as 
by Lady Jane. He sent back her balls, sometimes with 
that covert twist which means mischief, sometimes with 
that careless toss which means contempt; but he never let 
her engross him as she tried to do; and in the most mas- 
terly way staved off her finest attacks, and beat her back 
into insignificance. She could not say where he had hit 
her so as to hurt her, but she was conscious of vague blow^s 
and pinches, such as Queen Mab might have given some 
lazy slut in her dreams. As for Sophia — beginning with 
repugnance — with true Clinton contempt for this social in- 
vader — she was perforce won over to hsten; and she even 
caught herself out as amused and interested. Xay, more, 
she condescended to the baseness of saying to her confiden- 
tial self: ‘‘ How amusing this wretched being can be! And 
what a great deal he knows about everything!^' 

For the rest, French divided his time between the Hon- 
orable Mrs. Marsden, whom he had taken down, on his 
right hand, and this beautiful young creature on his left; 
but Mrs. Marsden had never found him so dull, and Yetta 
never imagined he could be so pleasant. 

Thus the dinner passed without a flaw. Fitz-George 
Standish wore the only melancholy face; Grant Ellacombe 
held the only pessimistic view. For even Mauiice had ban- 
ished his suspicions of the objectionable father from his 
thoughts, for the' more congenial task of trying to win to 
himself a pretty girl already promised to his brother 
—laying lines for a wife whose alliance would save the fam- 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 337 

ily if made with him, and profit them nothing if made with 
Lanfrey. If he could succeed, then would this be the 
crowning triumph of his amatory life; and it was a triumph 
worth striving for. 

So low had the dangers surrounding them brought the 
Clinton pride — as Paston had foreseen it would. It wasnio 
longer now Patty Oarew^s bastard son whom they were in 
their right to scorn. It was no longer the quadroon of 
legitimacy, whom Maurice might find himself forced to 
take for her money, to despise forever after for her birth. 
It was the potential destroyer of their house whom they had 
to propitiate — the probable possessor of their lands whom 
they had to buy off as they best eould. It was the fabled 
dragon who‘ might, if he would, devour them body and 
bones as they stood there before his cave offering cakes of 
meal and honey for his acceptance, they as helpless as he 
was strong. 

This dinner of formal reception made much talk in the 
place, and the verdict was the bit of patchwork that might 
be expected. Dear Mrs. Ellacombe, who lived in the mural 
Utopia proper to good wmmen who believe in the Sermon 
on the Mount, and know by heart that famous 13th chap- 
ter, saw in it the honest reconciliation of the foes, the be- 
ginning of a reign of social peace, and the first publication 
of the bans. Her husband did not agree with her. He 
looked on it as a blunder — a bad bit of joining, v^^hich 
would soon warp and split. For what could there be but 
vital severance between the remote legitimate and the near 
morganatic, who, but for that one bit of false swearing 
'called the marriage vows, would have been the heir.^ 

The rector hit the blot wFen he supposed the true cause 
of this sudden conversion to lie in the Clinton need and the 
Carew' sufficiency; and his wife supplemented his views by 
her own, which set Maurice and Yetta in line together, 
like those two hearts on a valentine which are skewered in 
an overlap on one dart. 

Mrs. Gays worthy asks Babs how she liked Sophia^s way 
of dressing her hair, and Babs thought it frightful, and was 
quite sure that Mr. Carew thought so too. And was it not 
a barefaced bid for him to give him that forward girl, 
thinking herself §o clever as she did, and mistaking mere 
pertness for wit? He should have had Ethel as the eldest 
girl; or he should have had you, mamma/ ^ said Babs, 


338 


PASTOX CAEEW, 


generously, thinking mousing in couples better than not 
mousing at all. 

To which Mrs. Gaysworthy replied: ‘‘ Yes, it was a mis- 
take, I grant; but the whole thing was easy to see. Mau- 
rice is making love to the girl, and Lady Jane wants the 
father for Sophia; and by the look of things one or other of 
these plans will succeed. 

We must ask Planchette, said Babs, significantly. 

‘‘ Do, dear; and I have no doubt of the answer, re- 
turned her mother, as significantly. 

Fitz-George Standish, who had been given to Ethel, and 
who at the best of times had no more talent than Mrs. Ella- 
combe for deep-sea fishing, thought it all as boautiful and 
plainly to be se^n as the prismatic colors seen in certain 
lights on the surface of a tranquil sea. He could not under- 
stand why the rector should smile as he did when he made 
a good hit out of Horace, nor why Grant Ellacombe should 
find reasons as thick as blackberries for disbelieving in the 
solidity of appearances. To him it was a chivalrous atone- 
ment for the former unholy enmity — a sublime confession 
of sin made in the face of the multitude at Beaton Brows — 
like that in Eome when the cowled and hooded sinner stands 
by the Grand Penitencier, and offers himself as a penitent, 
confessing to unknown crimes and performing his public 
penance. Besides this view, which more than reconciled 
liim to the necessity of the affair, Ethel had made the time 
of dinner pass on golden wings by her loving talk of Yetta. 
She had talked of little else, and she might have gone on 
for hours without tiring Fitz-George. They sat on the op- 
posite side of the table, and EthePs eyes wove lines of love 
wliich ever fashioned the name and thought of Lanfrey be- 
tween her and Yetta, while Fitz-George looked more fur- 
tively and less exclusively, finding his little neighbor herself 
by no means undeserving. She was unconsciously catching 
liis heart at the rebound, and her racket was her praise of 
the girl who had rejected him. 

When Hugh Arrol heard of the whole arrangement of 
things, and how the Carews had been a manifest success, 
he laughed in his bland, unctuous way. 

“ Too late, my dear, he said to Elsie; “the Clintons 
have let the right hour pass. There is a time for all things, 
and you can not make a good ship out of rotten timber. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


339 


They are angling for a dead fish^ and I see the run of the 
play as only those can who have been behind the scenes/' 

“ I hear that Fitz-George Standish was sweet on that 
ugly little Ethel/' said Elsie, with an uplifting of her chin 
that meant much. 

‘‘It would be a settlement for her and a quietus for 
him/^ said her husband. “ Lady Jane would not be so 
tolerant of his absurdities as you have been, my dear.'’^ 

“ He is certainly a great goose/ ^ said Elsie, with sublime 
forgetfulness; and her husband smiled and agreed with her 
— he was a goose, and always had been. 

^ “ No; at one time there were hopes of better things, 
said Elsie. 

“ When you had him in tow?’^ asked her husband. 

“ Yes/^ she said, with aplomb, “ At one time I thought 
I should have made something of him.^’ 

“ And you found you could iiot?^’’ 

“ Nothing/^ she answered, with a scornful accent that 
was in itself the whole chart of a woman^s mind, when her 
course has veered from intellectual sympathy, adorable 
companionship, and Platonic love to disappointment, 
estrangement, and disdain. 

At home Paston said nothing that could pain his daugh- 
ter. He regretted his former outburst, and he feared the 
softening effects of her influence. He merely praised the 
dinner, the company, the hosts, and covered down all the 
rest. He had not a sneer for the extravagance of these 
ruined landed proprietors— not a jubilant note for their own 
reception. It was all rose-color and silver lining, all honey 
and butter, and really it seemed as if the Beaton Brows 
social, millennium had fairly come, and that old dragon of 
enmity and medisaiice had been finally chained and sub- 
dued. 

After this a few meetings were arranged, always by the 
Clintons, which brought the Carews to the Hall. Now it 
was afternoon tea; now a game of badminton in the great 
hall; now practicing duets in song or on the piano; and the 
invitations, always so prettily worded, so graciously given, 
were so manifestly for the pleasure of his daughter while 
taking in himself as well, that Paston had not the faintest 
foothold for an excuse — and truth to say, he did not wish 
to find one. It was the play as he had arranged it, and he 
wanted nothing better than the way things were going. 


340 


PASTOJf CAREW, 


He had givea orders to his lawyer to let the demand for 
lapsed interest to lie in abeyance; and he had had a con- 
versation with French wherein he had shown himself rea- 
sonable and fair, and by no means the greedy curmudgeon 
of his general repute. Maurice too had managed his peace- 
making with consummate skill, ^nd Yetta was Only too 
glad to forget what did no one any good to remember. It 
was enough for her that she could talk to Ethel of Lanfrey, 
that she was admitted as a friend to the house of Lanfrey^s 
parents, and that things should look so favorable in the 
present as to make the future possible. She had nothing 
of that tenacity of resentment which remembers the wound 
and forgets the salve; and on this platform of pure tender- 
ness of nature, and the love of good things rather than of 
evil ones, she forgave Maurice his past abominations, and 
resolved to see in him only Lanfrey^s brother. 

All this time Lanfrey wrote to her, by her father^s per- 
mission; and also, by the same permission, she answered 
him. And though the letters were such as might be pub- 
lished at the market-cross for all the avowed sentiment they 
possessed, tliey were full of subtle passages intelligible only 
to the souls which loved," but to them these passages 
breathed the divinest comfort, and parried assurances as 
joyful as the song of a lark hidden in the sky. 

Hays came and went, and Time floated steadily on 
through space, scattering behind him Eternity and the great 
Forever. French had paid something on account, and 
Paston had not pressed for more. But the notice of fore- 
closure always remained; and the cakes of meal and honey 
had evidently not done more than soothe for the moment 
the formidable dragon whose wording appetite was so fero- 
ciously insatiable. French knew all this by heart; so did 
Lady Jane; so did Maurice. It was a truce, an armistice; 
but it was no more. The fight had to be renewed, and the 
siege had not been raised. Then the authorities called a 
council of war to decide on their next move, and deter- 
mined on that proposal of marriage which was to save all, 
or be the signal for the renewal of hostilities. French 
would go to Mock-Beggar and have it out with Paston, and 
Maurice would then know his fate. 

All as he had foreseen-^all as he had planned for! Who 
had befriended him? what spiritual shield had protected 
him? what divine sword had been girded on his thigh? 


MILLIOi^AIRE AND MISER. 341 

When he saw French Clinton riding up to the door, some 
few weeks after that memorable dinner, Paston knew what 
the whole thing portended. He was as sure of the meaning 
of the visit as if the owner of the Hall had borne it written 
in letters of light across his breast; and taking Planchette, 
he laid his nervous hands on the instrument and called out 
aloud, Who has done this for me?’ ^ 

Then the pencil moved, and for the first time wrote the 
name he had so longed to have— “ Aline.” 

He who had seen Paston Carew at this moment would 
not have recognized him. Taller, grander than men knew 
him, full of the divine glory of success, strengthened by the 
demoniacal power of triumphant hate, released from fear 
by the assurance of Love, he was no longer the mean miser, 
the wooden sphinx of his-every-day presentation. He was 
more like Milton’s archangel ruined, or some sublime 
seraph who had taken suit and service with Satan, so full 
and overwhelming were the thoughts and passions possess- 
ing him. He was like the demon of unholy victory, round 
whose dark brow Love has wreathed his crimson roses; he 
was scarcely so much a man as a soul, a being transfigured 
to its true spiritual icon — more a visible Force than a 
material embodiment. At that moment his soul fioated, 
as on a sea of light, in the fiery heaven of his gratified de- 
sire; and if anotlier would have called that heaven hell, to 
him it was paradise, and he asked no better. 

Then the servant knocked at the door and told him 
through the closed panels that Mr. Clinton was in the draw- 
ing-room; and Paston put away his dilated self as the fly- 
ing woman of the deserted island folded her filmy wings 
against her body,. and was once more only the Paston of 
every-day life — inscrutable and immovable — the inexorable 
j3reditor and the cold, keen, unimpassioned calculator. 


CHAPTEE XXXVH. 

THE OFFER OF ADJUSTMENT. 

‘‘ Mr. Carew, we must come to some arrangement,” 
said French, after the first greetings had been made. 

Paston slightly bowed. 

‘‘At your pleasure,” he answered. 

“ You have given notice to foreclose the mortgages?” 


PASTON CAREW, 


M2 


“I have/" 

And mean to abide by it?"" 

Again Paston slightly bowed. His dumb show meant^ 
“Ido."" 

“ You will ruin me and mine?"" asked French, hotly. 

“ If needs must, it will be a pitiful necessity, "" answered 
Paston, coldly. 

“But in God"s name, why?"" almost shouted the owner 
of Clinton. 

“ Why? — ^because you can not pay even the interest, Mr. 
Clinton, and I can not afford to lie out of my money,"" an- 
swered Paston, in a matter-of-fact way, stating the question 
as it was, regardless of its sentiment. 

“ And you will not give me time?"" 

“ I would willingly, if I could; but I can not. I took 
up the debt at great inconvenience to myself, to accommo- 
date Mr. Arrol, and now I myself am too crippled to treat 
the thing with the generosity I should have preferred. I 
must foreclose. However painful to myself and unpleasant 
to you, I must. "" 

This was a long speech from Paston. In general he held 
to the wisdom of short sentences. Many words and long 
txplanations were, according to him, sure to be full of weak 
places which a clever dialectical archer could hit at will. 

“ I do not assume that you are actuated by any personal 
feeling in this matter,"" said French. “"You want your 
money or its equivalent? — only that?"" 

“Just so,"" said Paston, his eyes as glassy as a cod"s. 

“ If you could find a way to recoup yourself and leave 
us unharmed, you would take it?"" 

Paston made a slight movement of assent. He dared 



that way,"" said French. 


Paston smiled, and French could not read his smile. It 
was not intended that he should. 

“ You have a daughter; I have a son,"" said French. 

“ Two,"" put in Paston. 

Two for myself; only one for you and the estate,"" re- 
turned French. “ Why not arrange a marriage between 
Maurice and your girl? Me admires her; he will have the 
estate after my death; he is a fine, brave, purposeful 
young fellow; and this marriage will square everything."" 


MILLION-AIKE AND MISER. 343 

Paston put his chin into his right hand and rested his 
elbow on the left. 

‘‘ Yesr^,’ he said, as a man might who throws off the 
foam lying on the surface of profound cogitation. Then 
he added, after a long pause, during which French 
watched him in an agony of suspense as Paston felt and 
knew though he could not see: “ But how would that pay 
me either my interest or my outlay?^ ^ 

‘‘ Your daughter^’s dower, said French. 

‘‘Ah! yes, I understand,” said Paston. “I must give 
your son a sum of money that he may pay your debt to 
me? I do not quite see my gain in this, Mr. Clinton. ” 

“ ISo man marries his daughter without a dowry, said 
French; “ at least no man in your position. ” 

“Just so; but the money is generally supposed to be 
given to insure the daughters well-being,’^ said Paston, 
speaking very slowly and deliberately. “It is not given 
to pay the debts of the young man’s father, nor to recoup 
the father of the bride by shifting his loss from one pocket 
to the other.” 

“ To pay off the mortgages will release the rents,” said 
French; “and with the estate unencumbered I could 
afford my son and your daughter an allowance that would 
satisfy even you.” 

“ Yes?” said Paston; and again there was a long pause, 
during which the finger of the god of silence did not stir 
from his closed lips. • 

“ My son loves your girl,” then said French. 

“ Which son?” asked Paston, innocently. 

“Maurice.” 

“ And the other? — the younger? — Mr. Lanfrey, I think 
you call him?” 

“ He does not count,” said French, hastily. 

“No? I do not think he would quite agree to that, ” 
said Paston. “ When he laid his case before me and 
asked for my daughter’s hand, he seemed to hold himself 
as counting for a good deal.” 

“How?” asked French. “ On the estate?” 

“ No,” answered Paston, with a certain grim quietness 
that gave French the impression of receiving a blow — such 
as he had had once before. “ As a man.” . . 

“ Lanfrey has nothing to offer,” said his father. His 


344 


PASTON CAREW, 


marriage with Miss Care w would not advance our affairs 
by a line. 

“ But if my girl likes him?^^ asked Paston. 

It was now French’s turn to be silent. He was a Clin- 
ton, and Maurice was his heir; but Lanfrey was also his 
son; and if his heart-break would not be so bitter as the 
ruin of Maurice, it was still always a son’s despair; and 
failure on either side brought equal sorrow to the father. 

‘VI would not pay you the bad compliment to offer you 
my younger son for your daughter,” then said French, 
after a pause. “ Between the two, Maurice is the better 
parti; and she deserves the best. ” 

“ But you know there has been a certain something — a 
little filmy kind of affair — between my daughter and your 
second son?” asked Paston. “1 do not say that it has 
been serious— has gone deep — but there it is. We must 
reckon with accomplished facts as well as our own wishes.” 

“ Lanfrey will give up your daughter for his brother’s 
good,” said French, hastily. “ It is for the sake of the 
family. ” 

Paston’s cat-like eyes narrowed. "The admission was 
impolitic — as imprudent as it was frank. French felt the 
blunder the instant he had made it. 

“He maybe as tractable as you say; but I can not 
answer as much for my daughter,” said Paston, slowly. 

“ She is a good girl, but girls are difficult. Still, I migtt 
do my best and try.” 

“ Will you?” asked French, eagerly. 

“ I might,” said Paston, cautiously. 

“ And your word will determine everything.” 

“Ido not promise, Mr. Clinton,” was the reply, still 
grave and cautious. “ Your elder son has not, so far as I 
know, made much way with my daughter. He has not 
paid his court.” 

“ As much as he felt himself justified in doing,” said 
French. “ More would have been imprudent.” 

“ Well, we can but let the young people settle the mat- 
ter among themselves,” was Paston’s answer. 

“ And you promise to aid Maurice?” urged French. 

“ I promise not to oppose my daughter if she prefers 
him,” said Paston. 

“Backed by you she will,” said French in the tone of. 
cQUYiction, 


. MILLIOJTAIKE AKD MISER, 345 

Paston looked like the Sphinx and uttered not a sound. 
Then seeing that he was expected to speak, he said, as it 
might have been his final word, She may. 

French writhed in spirit. This man was truly impossi- 
ble! He was neither to be constrained nor caught. He 
was as contemptuous of force as he was impervious to 
caresses. He was as little human as a New Zealand idol; 
as little compassionate as the typical stone. He was a , 
monster — but he held the Clinton securities; the mortgages , 
were to be foreclosed; and Yetta was his daughter and pre- ' 
sumably his heiress. He was a devil, but he had the upper 
hand; and devil- worshipers have a bad time of it. 

Then said Paston, still speaking in the cold, grave, level 
manner he had adopted throughout the interview: “Let 
me congratulate you, Mr. Clinton, on your paternal — shall 
I call it chivalry or control? It is not every young man— 
every soldier like your son the captain — whose father will 
make himself his embassador in matters of this kind. In . ' 
England we talk a great deal of nonsense about love, and 
leave the young people too much liberty of choice/^ 

“ Now what the deuce does the old scoundrel mean?^^ 
thought French. “Is he laughing at me in his sleeve, or 
is he in earnest?^^ 

As the face of his host told him nothing, and he had to 
reply, he answered in his off-hand way: “ So! that is true 
for most marriages. But there is a certain element in this 
which makes it different from most others.’’^ 

“ The element of bargain ?^^ asked Paston, blandly. 

“ Of business, blundered out French. 

“ I see the distinction,’"’ said Paston, with marvelous 
self-possession. And again French wondered whether this 
was part of a scheme, a play, a mask, or the real thing as 
it appeared. 

But try as boldly as he would— he could not try astutely; ■ 
fish with as long a line as he would — he could get nothing 
more from Paston. He would not oppose and he would 
not deny. Y'etta was the arbiter of her own fate in this. 

If she liked Maurice Clinton, she should marry him; if she 
did not, he could not force her. Girls were sometimes 
manageable, and sometimes they were unmanageable —she 
might be, or she might not. This scheme for the payment 
of the debts was — well, singular — but it was as good as any 
other scheme not involving cash down. The mortgages had 


346 PASTON CAKEW, 

to be loreclosed on the date of the notice; but if Mr. Clin- 
ton or his son could find a way of escape, the road was open 
to them. And so on. 

It was a pendulum that swung with even beat; now to 
the north and then to the south — to the chill snows of de- 
spair— -to the glad sunshine of possibility; and French was 
like some poor wretch bound to this giant oscillator — tossed 
to and fro between the two limits, and not able to hold by 
either. 

After he took his leave, and while he went on his home- 
ward way, he felt as a recreant Crusader who had let the 
“ Paynim hack off his spurs and break his sword — who 
■ had worshiped the crescent and abjured the cross, fur fear 
of the death that would also destroy his dear ones. He had 
humbled his honorable pride and forsworn his ancient faith 
— ^for what? He had not even got the earthly mess for 
which he had bartered his spiritual birthright. He had 
been false to himself and his traditions, and he had gained 
nothing by his weakness. He had voluntarily supped with 
the devil, and his spoon had been too short. He had car- 
ried water for the lustration of the temple, and he had car- 
ried it in a sieve. The most miserable man in England was 
that well-set-up, handsome, lordly country gentleman who 
now rode slowly down the road from Mock-Beggar to Clin- 
ton, conscious that he was beaten — conscious that he had 
been tricked and laughed at, and that his humiliation had 
not been able to avert his ruin. 

Nevertheless he had to act as if there was still hope. We 
can not live on the lines of our private convictions, how- 
ever positive they may be; we must live rather according to 
the possibilities of things; and no man feels himself justi- 
fied in abandoning the fight while the remotest chance of 
victory remains. Only when hope lies dead and doubt has 
become certitude do we sound the retreat and give up the 
contest. So with French. In his own mind he was con- 
vinced that all his endeavor was useless; that Fasten Ca- 
re w would not be bought oyer, and that, failing the suc- 
cess of the mine, they would have to sell and be dispossessed; 
yet he could not translate this thought into a deed; and he 
must still act as if he believed and hoped. 

It is worth the trial. 

This was what Lady Jane and even Maurice said: 

It is worth the trial!'’' 


' MILLIOI^AIRF. AND MISER. 


347 


Alas, poor blinded mortals that we are! If but some 
god would make us able to foresee — would touch our eyes 
with the magic herb that clears away the film of ignorance, 
and shows us results and consequences as clearly as we 
know now what plant will come from what seed, and the 
fruit that will be gathered from the graft! 

Not having this gift, and as far from the insight of Th 
resias as from the foreknowledge' of Cassandra, Maurice ac- 
cepted Paston^s dead neutrality as active partisanship, and 
made his cold concession to duty for warm and ^mpa- 
thetic permission. The next day he went to Mock-Peggar 
and urged his own suit; and Paston listened to him as he 
had listened to French — with a face like wood, a heart as 
hard as stone, and a manner that lured the young fellow 
on to hope, then flung him back to doubt. He swung him 
too on the infernal pendulum, like a lost soul tortured by 
demons, with radiant glimpses of the paradise he seemed on 
the point of entering, then with hot flashes of the hell into 
which he was all but thrown. 

To the worldly arguments, urged in all good faith by 
Maurice, the millionaire gave attentive hearing. He agreed 
with the heir and future possessor of Clinton Hall — the al- 
liance was not dishonorable to his daughter. To be a 
Clinton^s wife, and thus placed among the first of the 
Fellshire county families, was a position not to be despised 
even by one of rank among the titled aristocracy. It was 
a temptation — surely, a temptation. But then, you see, 
there were chances. Maurice, though youngj was not im- 
mortal. He might die before his father. Granted there 
would be the son, but was that quite positively a certainty? 
All women did not bear sons, did they? and more than one 
great family had shifted its branches, and for want of fer- 
tile offshoots in the elder had been forced to descend to the 
younger. And Lanfrey was so far his daughter’s choice. 
He did not say he was his — Paston’s; but that had nothing 
to do with the matter. For the most part young women 
married to please themselves, not their parents; and he was 
not the man to force his daughter to a course against her 
inclinations. 

The relations, however, between his daughter and young 
Lanfrey were not of a very solid kind. He, Paston, had 
not sanctioned, but he had not forbidden; because he had 
no strong desire and no valid objection. For the last, you 


348 PASTOK t:AKEVV% 

see, the temptation of an alliance with a Clinton always re- 
mained as a temptation; and if the young people fancied 
each other, there was no law to prevent their marrying. 
^ow that-, the elder son had come forward the game was a 
little changed, and the pieces on the chess-board seemed to 
call for some rearrangement. It was a little awkward to 
transfer a potential wife from one brother to another; but 
perhaps that was not insuperable. Lanfrey seemed to be a 
thoLiohtful, reasonable, unselfish kind of young gentleman; 
he might be induced to give up his bride for the sake of his 
brother in particular, and the family in general. For of 
course Yetta’s dowry would be a good thing if poured into 
the family coffers. They were certainly at a low ebb jhst 
now— were they not? The bulk of the interest was still 
unpaid, and the notice to foreclose remained. And — yes, 
it was easy to see that the fortunes of a younger son would 
not profit the estate so much as if the money were poured, 
as he said, into the coffers of the elder. We did not live in 
Utopia; and it w^as not to be expected, nor was it desirable, 
that Lanfrey should give his wife’s fortune to redeem his 
father’s debts. The core of the contest lay between the 
two brothers. Yetta’s inclination, too, counted for some- 
thing; blithe, Paston, was — -indifferent? well, perhaps not 
quite indifferent. He had his predilections, naturally. 
What father would not desire the best for his child? 

Still, he was neutral. That was the only honorable 
course of conduct — and the young people must decide for 
themselves. Would he send for Miss Carew? Would he 
allow him, Captain Clinton, to see her? Certainly, if she 
was at home; but he rather feared she was not. She had 
gone to the Knoll, and was spending the afternoon there. 
Mrs. Ellacombe was an active partisan of young Lanfrey’s; 
and, always in liis character of the perfectly fair and lib- 
eral parent, he allowed his daughter to take what comfort 
she could find in talking of her absent Romeo. Women 
are but weak vessels at the best; and men must be tender 
in their handling. 

And now, having told him where Miss Carew was to be 
found, perhaps he, Captain Clinton, would like to go and 
join her? With his permission? Yes, he might tell her 
and Mrs. Ellafombe that he went with his, the father’s, 
permission. He was welcome to make what way he would 
or could, but he was not to expect too much. And in no 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 349 

case was he to feel assured that the mortgages would not 
be foreclosed according to their date. He, too, Paston 
Oarew, was ambitious for his child. Suppose he should 
wish to place her at the head of the family now at once.^ — 
if he should wish to see her mistress of Clinton, even dur- 
ing the life-time of the present owner? It would be a pain 
to them, perhaps. He could understand that — but it would 
be only natural in him. Each for himself in this world; 
ai]d with the mortgages unredeemed^ it must not be forgot- 
ten that he, Paston Carevv, was virtually master of the es- 
tate, and could make whom he would its owner. But this 
was only a potentiality. There was no doubt things could 
be managed with more regard to every one^s susceptibifity. 
Meanwhile Yetta’s girlish fancy had strayed to Lanfrey, the 
younger son; but he, Maurice, the elder, might if he could 
— here Paston smiled as Mephistopheles might have smiled 
when Faust wished to rescind the bargain in favor of virtue 
and love — win her to himself. When this was done, there 
would be time to discuss the terms of the settlements. 

And when the conversation had ended, and Maurice had 
taken his leave and driven off to the Knoll on his rather 
forlorn hope, he felt as French had felt before him — as if 
he had been buffeted to and fro, and betrayed at the end. 

Yet no cause had been openly given for the abandon- 
ment of the scheme. On the conti-ary, outwardly all things 
ran as smoothly as if they had been set on casters of gold 
in grooves of silver. 

Appearances had been carefully preserved, and not even 
the spare spars of the boats had been burned. It was only 
the inner dignity of the man that was hurt; like those 
wounds which leave no trace on the skin, but by which the 
victim bleeds internally to death. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE SCAPEGOAT. 

'No visits were so pleasant to Yetta as those she paid at 
the Knoll. No person was so dear to her as Mrs. EUa- 
combe. Truly, Ethel was as her sister; but then Mrs. 
Ellacombe was as her mother; and only a girl whose love 
of liberty does not degenerate into desire for license, and 
who i-ealizes her ignorance sufficiently to understand the 


350 


PASTON CAREW, 

value of counsel, knows the gain of the Mother among 
women. 

In her turn the Mamed Madonna of Beaton Brows held 
Patty, Carew^’s granddaughter as if she had been her own 
child. She won her confidence by giving sympathy, and 
gained obedience by demonstrating the better guidance of 
her wider experience; and it had cohie now to thnt kind of 
intimacy when Yetta concealed nothing from the woman 
whom she had put in the place of her spiritual mother, 
and when Mrs. Ellacombe had no fear of offending her by 
plain-speaking, however direct. For, after all, it is not 
airectness which wounds; it is bitterness. The plainest 
speaking, going to the point as straight as a die, hurts no 
one if without bitterness, while the most flattering words, 
if touched with spite and the desire to pain, do their work 
without fail and stab to the quick. For another thing, 
Yetta could talk about Lanfrey to Mrs. Ellacombe as freely 
as to Ethel. Indeed, more freely; seeing that she was sel- 
dom alone with Ethel, who, w^hen with the rest> was per- 
force silent — the family having pledged itself to Maurice, 
and wearing his colors in this race for life and fortune. 
Mrs. Ellacombe, on the contrary, had been Lanfrey^s 
friend from the beginning, and she had not veered by a 
haiPs-breadth. 

Of late Y^etta had gone to the Knoll even more fre- 
quently than before; for though Paston had said to French 
that Maurice had not urged his suit, Yetta knew that he. 
had, in ways too subtle to be visible to outsiders, but evi- 
dent enough between themselves. And, helpless as she was 
in the matter all through, it had been more than a com- 
fort, it had been almost a necessity for her mental health, 
that she should be able to talk of Lanfrey without stint or 
restraint, repudiating Maurice as an intruder. 

The youngofficer had continued the role adopted on that 
memorable day of the dinner. He had been tender, re- 
spectful, subdued, circumspect. He had worked with the 
patience of a prisoner digging night by night beneath his 
dungeon floor for the hope of escape. But he had not 
made one inch of way beyond the first grant of frank for- 
giveness. After that Yetta’s heart had closed; and Mau- 
rice had used his best arts to unlock it in vain. 

Still, on that principle of not abandoning the fight while 
the remotest chance of yictory remains, Maurice had con^ 


351 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 

tinned his careful advances — had sought to sap and mine, 
that he might finally conquer this fair fortress of fidelity 
which had given its allegiance to another. He could not 
flatter himself that he had succeeded; but it was worth the 
trial: for women, like towns, are sometimes taken by as- 
sault; and who knows the weak places there may not be in 
so-called impregnable strongholds? 

With the feeling, then, of a gambler playing for stakes 
that will be ruin or regality — the dash of a man leading a 
forlorn hope — he drove off to the Knoll for the dedsive 
throw and the last effort. 

He found Yetta without her bonnet sitting in the draw- 
ing-room close to Mrs. Ellacombe — both working at the 
same bit of embroidery, as if they had been really the 
mother and daughter they often wished they had been, and 
almost thought they were. Yetta had been laying all her 
troubles on this dear loving heart, so "apt to receive them. 
But with these troubles she had one transcendent joy, like 
a shining star seen through the inky clouds — she had a let- 
ter from Lanfrey to-day; and a letter which breathed a 
more than usually hopeful spirit — and he was never down- 
hearted — and been more than ordinarily pronounced in its 
tenderness. It had been so tender, indeed, that Paston had 
hesitated before he had sent it up to his daughter, wishing 
to keep all things only shimmering and potential, not pos- 
itive. Ethel had kept her brother informed of all that was 
going on in the family, and Lanfrey had read between the 
lines. And though he did not think Yetta^s faith wanted 
much buttressing, yet — nothing is the worse for an extra 
stay; and a lover has never too much of love. 

The two women were still talking of the future and its 
chances, bad and good, when Captain Clinton was an- ! 
nounced. His name was like the renewing of an old pict- 
ure, but travestied and distorted. In the glad Summer, 
Lanfrey; in the drear and frozen winter, Maurice; both 
Clintons, yet how different! Now, as then, were thoughts 
and feelings unexpressed but understood; but then they 
were shared, and now they were repudiated. 

‘‘I am a petitioner from my people, said Maurice, 
when he had made his obeisance in modern conventional 
form. ‘‘ They want you to come back with me and dine 
with us this evening. 

'' Thmik you/" said Yetta; “but I promised my father 


352 


PASTOl^ OAKEW, 


that I would go back to dine with him, else I should have 
stayed here/^ looking at Mrs. Ellacombe, who looked at 
her and smiled. 

“ Your father has authorized me to release you from 
your promise/^ said Maurice, quickly. He was fertile at 
finding reasons and filling up gaps. He said, indeed, 
that he wished me to take you back.'’' 

“ Thank you, but I can not go to-day," again said Yet- 
ta, with a shade more of firmness in her negation. 

Maurice flushed. It was always a sore trial to him to be 
denied; and this request was of more importance than most. 

I beg of you," he said, fervently — more fervently than 
the occasion seemed to warrant. 

Yetta shook her head. She was as gentle as the gentlest 
dove sunning itself on the house-top, but she was not one 
of those molluscous creatures who find “ Ho " a word of 
insuperable difficulty, and who can be led into a disastrous 
marriage or a ruinous loan to avoid the temporary prick of 
this little thorn. 

You do not know what you do!" said Maurice, with a 
certain ill-suppressed agitation which Mrs. Ellacombe saw 
as clearly as Yetta. “ I beg of you, if you have the small- 
est regard for me — for us — that you will come. Let me 
take you back; I have the cart here — for, you see, I came 
prepared." 

‘‘ But — why am I wanted so specially to-day?" asked 
Yetta, who scented danger and dreaded a snare. 

That is my —that is our affair," returned Maurice. 
‘‘Only do as I tell you — as I beg and pray of you to do; 
with my whole heart, I entreat you. Miss Garew!" 

His voice and manner were more and more insistent — ^ 
more and more agitated. It might have been a matter of 
life and death that he was urging. 

“ What has happened?" asked Mrs. Ellacombe. “ No 
one ill, I hope?" 

“ Not Lanfrey?" cried Yetta, blanched to her very lips, 
and too much agitated to heed the admission of close inter- 
est and continued association made by her question. “ Not 
Ethel?" she then added, as the shadow to the substance, 
the echo to the note. 

“ No," said Maurice, reluctantly. He would have liked 
to frame a , sufficient excuse in a well-rounded lie, if that 
yvould have taken her, “ No one is exactly ill, bnt we havq 


MILLIONAIRE AND MIBER. 


353 


Deed of you. Miss Carew, at the Hall;'we have urgent need 
of You,^^ he repeated. 

‘ Tell me why, and I will go if I see that I can do any 
good,^' said Yetta. “ Why do you want me:^^ 

“My mother wants you,” said Maurice. “She has 
something important to tell you.^^ 

Yetta looked at Mrs. Ellacombe with the scared look of a 
'girTs terror, knowing nothing and fearing all. 

“ Important to tell about Lanfrey?^'’ asked Mrs. Ella- 
combe, making herself the mouth-piece. 

“ Yes,^^ said Maurice, so far speaking truly. 

Yetta laid her hand on her mother-friend’s soft arm. She 
was white and trembling. Her large eyes were dark and 
dilated; her slightly parted lips quivered; her whole air 
and manner spoke her uncontrolled distress. 

“ All things were well yesterday,” said Mrs. Ellacombe. 
“ Yetta heard from him this morning. What can have 
happened?” 

“ If he is in sorrow, if he is ill and wants me, I will make 
my father take me to London,” said Yetta, in the strained 
voice of strong agitation. “ And you will come too,” she 
added to Mrs. Ellacombe. 

Maurice looked at her, noting her every word and gest- 
ure. The passion of her fear broke down the barriers of 
her girlish reticence. She was no longer ashamed to con- 
fess; no longer too shy to bear witness. She was not the 
maiden whose betrothment was in secret, and unsanctioned 
if not openly forbidden. She was the woman who took on 
herself the responsibility of her own life, and laid bare be- 
fore men the hidden mysteries of her heart. For a mo- 
ment Maurice hesitated — balanced probabilities — foresaw 
consequences. Should he succeed if he tried the old well- 
known trick of a bold lie, crafty suppression of letters, en- 
forced severance? If he were to say now boldly, “ My 
brother renounces you ” — and then seek to make his own 
way, trading on her compassion for the ruin of the family 
and her natural abhorrence that this ruin should come from 
her father? He stood there hesitating for just that one 
short moment which contains in itself the substance of a 
life-time. And then he gave up. Further endeavor was 
simply waste of energy and misuse of time. 

“Ko harm has befallen Lanfrey,” said Maurice, in a 
voice as strange and strained as her own. “ Do not dis- 


354 


PASTOJf CAKEW> 


tress yourself. Miss Carew. The evil that has befallen its 
does not touch my brother; it touches only the rest of the 
family— all the rest — all but hirn/^ 

“ What evil? What do you mean?"^ asked Yetta, draw- 
ing a step nearer; for Maurice had fluog himself on the 
sofa, where he sat now, his elbows on his knees and his face 
buried in his two hands — the picture of defeat and despair. 

“ It means, said Maurice, lifting up his ashen face and 
speaking with that sudden outburst which best expresses 
unconditional surrender, “ we are hopelessly and finally 
ruined. Your father has us in his grip. He is about to 
sell the estate, or force us to sell it, which is about the same 
thing, and we shall have to leave the place which a Clinton 
has held for more generations than we can count. And 
you might save us if you would. 

cried Yetta. “But I have no influence with my 
father in matters of business. So far from his consulting 
me, he does not even tell me what he is doing. 

“ There are other ways than that of supplicating your 
father not to foreclose, said Maurice, significantly. 

“No! Captain Clinton, do not!^’ cried Mrs. Ella- 
combe, who knew what was coming. 

“You and you alone can save us, through me,^^ said 
Maurice, not heeding her warning, holding out his hands 
in supplication. “ One little word from you would redeem 

Yetta shrunk back with a gesture of instincive horror. 

“ Be grand and noble and unselfish enough to forget 
yourself,'^ continued Maurice. “ Give up the man you 
love, for his own sake, and save his family. Marry me, 
and we are still Clintons of Clinton. To marry Lanfrey is 
to save nothing. It founds his fortune on the ruin of his. 
house.'’’ 

The whole thing was so sudden and appalling, the cir- 
cumstances were so violent, though the mere manner in 
which Maurice spoke was more pathetic than strong, that: 
Yetta was struck with that curious kind of dumbness which 
comes on a nervous shock. Keversing the story of Galatea, 
she stood like a woman suddenly struck to stone — from 
living flesh and blood become a statue. After a time this 
frozen kind of horror left her free, and the blood came up 
in a crimson flood which at least was more natural to her. 


MILLIOKAIRE AND MISER. 


355 


‘‘ What you say is infinitely shocking to me/^ she then 
said, her pause seeming to Maurice to have lengthened time 
into eternity. How could you expect me to give up 
Lanfi’ey? 1 love him better than my own life. I have 
promised to be his wife — or no other man^s. If I wait till 
I die 1 will be true to him, and I shall meet him beyond 
the grave with my faith unbroken. I save my allegiance 
for him, and I would not marry any one else; I could not, 
even if I had to die for my constancy.''^ 

She said all this with the steady fervor of a vow — the 
calmness of a confession like those of the old martyrs which 
burned the body and saved the soul. 

Maurice did not answer. He was still sitting on the sofa, 
his small, close-cropped, handsome head turned away as he 
looked drearily out on to the bleak winter day. His forlorn 
hope had failed, and he was beaten. No conqueror^s terms 
were his — no superb recognition of his foe^s defeat. The 
flush of victory, the intoxication of success, had passed over 
to another; and it was he who had to strike his flag and 
own himself defeated. It was a moment of agony for the 
proud man whose inherited castle, so solid for all his fore- 
bears, now proved to have been founded on a quicksand 
which the gathering storm was carrying away. It was his 
farewell to all he loved and all that had made his true life. 
Henceforth his way must be one of obscurity, where death 
would come as a release. He must efface himself. He 
would never now be Clinton of Clinton. The younger 
brother must take his place, and in all probability the fa- 
thers place as well. Nothing but a miracle of sudden suc- 
cess in the Brent Fell Mine would save the estate; and this, 
though on the cards and possible, was scarce likely. Fort- 
une does not arrange these marvels for hard-pressed men; 
and when you are sinking in a clear sea, no life-boat from 
the harbor fifty miles away will suddenly draw up along- 
side to rescue you. No, he was beaten; and Lanfrey would 
win all that he had lost — estate and headship of the ancient 
House, fortune and the woman he too loved. For at this 
moment he truly and sincerely loved Yetta Carew, Pas- 
ton ^s daughter. It was no longer a question of the baser 
blood which he would have despised when he had been sated 
with her beauty. It was the girl herself, who, for herself, 
he would have made his wife— her birth and origin not- 
withstanding. But his chance was gone. He had cast and 


356 PASTOlf CAKEW, 

lost. Now to pay Ills stakes as a brave aud honorable gen- 
tleman should. 

‘‘ Your decision gives the final touch, he said, rising 
and speaking with the dignity which sometimes comes as 
the last force of despair. “ Your adherence to my brother 
is my death-warrant, but you can not help yourself. You 
have pledged your word and given your lo^e, and you must 
be faithful to yourself. It is only I who am destroyed. 

I do not understand you. What does it ,^11 mean.^ 
Why should my marriage with Lanfrey — ^if I ever am mar- 
ried to him— be your ruin?’-’ asked Yetta, in sore distress. 

You will see soon enough,” answered Maurice. “ It is 
only another of the many instances we have of the sinless 
Cains of life, and the scapegoats laden with crimes not 
their own, sent out into the wilderness to perish.” 

Tears stood in Yetta’s eyes. She did not love Maurice, 
Clinton, but she did not wish to harm him; and though 
she would have rather died than marry him;, she did not 
like to hear that her refusal had been his ruin. 

‘‘ It is like some miserable dream, some painful riddle,” 
she said. “Do you understand it, dear?” to Mrs. EJ la- 
combe. 

“ Yes, I think I do,” was the half-reluctant answer. 

“ No doubt the whole thing has been discussed in all its 
bearings by the whole of Beaton Brows,” said Maurice, 
bitterly. “ They do not often get such a rich dish of gos- 
sip.” 

“ Bather so much occasion for sincere and regretful sym- 
pathy,” returned Mrs. Ellacombe, gently. “ Do you not 
believe we all feel deeply for your trouble? We shiould be 
scarce human if we did not.” 

“ I do not know about that,” he answered, stiU bitter- 
ly. “ I think we all have a certain pleasure in the mis- 
fortunes of our friends. They make us feel our own bless- 
ings so much the more keenly,” he added, covering down 
liis bitter humor. 

“ But all is not lost for you,” said Mrs. Ellacombe, ig- 
noring the bitterness, and speaking with that sweet cheer- 
fulness of a brave woman which has the power to hearten 
man so greatly. “ You have still that hope, that chance, 
on Brent Fell; and at the worst you have your name, your 
profession, your career, which may redeem all. It will be 
a terrible pain, a desperate sorrow, if the worst comes to 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 357 

the worst; but it has not come yet, and while there is life 
there is hope. ^ ^ 

“ Here?^' asked Maurice, significantly looking at Yetta. 

“ No,^’ answered Mrs. Ellacombe, with decision. “ Not 
here, but elsewhere. 

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 

“ Always that to-morrow — that elsewhere, he said, in 
his usual contemptuous, half-brutal way. It was not pos- 
sible for him to live long on the heights. But for Yetta’s 
sake, to win her gooa opinion, and also, truth to say, to 
make her heart ache for self-reproach, he made one last 
effort. have no more to say, and no blame to cast 
on any one,^’ he said. “ Miss Carew is in her right. She 
has deprived me of home, estate, name, birthright; but 
she could not help herself. We are all the victims of fate, 
and in the hand of a power higher than our own wdll. I 
am content to suffer for the rest, if the rest will gain. 

If,'^^ said Mrs. Ellacombe, as the echo to the doubt. 

“ Yes, if,^^ repeated Maurice. “ Good-bye, Miss Carew,^^ 
he then said, holding out both his hands, into which, obey- 
ing the invitation, she put hers. “ You are the noblest as 
well as the sweetest and loveliest girl I have ever seen!” he 
said, fervently. I only wish that Lanfrey^s luck were 
mine! — but mine is cruel, and his is fortunate beyond 
words. Good-bye; God ble^ you; and remember always — 
I for^ve you what you have done to me!^^ 

‘‘ Why'do you wish me good-bye like this?^^ said Yetta. 

Are you going away?” 

“ Probably to-morrow,^^ he answered. 

Again Yetta looked at Mrs. Ellacombe. 

It will be better,^ ^ said that dear woman, speaking to 
Maurice in answer to the girPs look. “ There is no good 
in staying longer. In what way soever things turn out, you 
can do no good by being on the spot. Let things be man- 
aged as quietly as may be.” 

Have I not already shown that I mean it?” he an- 
swered, with more than a dash of impatience in his acquies- 
cence. Again shaking hands impressively, with Yetta, and 
with a sudden return to gentleness with Mrs. Ellacombe, 
he turned and left the room; and the final ordeal was 
over. 

Now tell me what does it all mean,” cried Yetta, be- 
ginning to tremble, I haY§ a vague idea^ but I do not 


358 


I’ASTOX C’AKEW, 


feel quite certain. Tell me., darling! You understand it 
all, and I do not. 

‘‘How should you understand, poor dear child said 
Mrs. Ellacombe, drawing the girl to her and kissing her. 
“ It means, then, simply this: your father holds bonds 
which make him virtually owner of the Clinton estate, un- 
less they can find money before a certain date to pay off 
the debt. Maurice wants to marry you, not only for your- 
self, but for the sake of the family and this bad bit of bus- 
iness. JDo you not see? As his mfe and your father^’s 
heiress, you would be doubly mistress of the Hall, and the 
family would not be dispossessed. As Lanfrey^s wife you 
will be the same; but Lanfrey is the younger and Maurice 
is the elder, and your marriage -with the younger will virtu- 
ally disinherit the elder. 

“Hanfrey shall give it back to them,'’^ said Yetta, with 
flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. “ He would be the last 
man in the world to make his own fortune out of his broth- 
er's ruin. If it all comes to pass like this, Captain Clin- 
ton shall have the estate; and poor Mr. Clinton and Lady 
Jane shall keep it for as long as they live. I would not 
have it! I could not live at the Hall, and know that they 
were exiled — they^being the rightful owners. It will all 
come right, dear, in the end— quite, quite right 

“ You have your father to deal with — not only your 
own generous impulses and £anfrey"s sense of family 
honor, said Mrs. Ellacombe, quietly. 

“ Ah, my father said Yetta, suddenly realizing that 
Fasten was indeed not the same as Lanfrey, and that what 
her lover would do without the delay of a moment, her fa- 
ther would not grant by years of entreaty. The whole po- 
sition was as agonizing to her as to Maurice. To think 
that the ruin of the old House was to come about by 
them, the Carews — by her father — seemed to desecrate the 
holiness of her love even more than when Maurice had 
kissed her arm and made her feel helpless to his insult. 

Would she be able to soften him? Would not her rela- 
tions with Lanfrey do something? She did not want the 
estate; and she was sure that Lanfrey wanted it no more 
than herself. She asked only to have her engagement ac- 
knowledged openly, and without doing harm to any one; 
when she would wait in patient cheerfulness for that indefi- 
nite time of Lanfrey professional success whicji should 


MTLLIOifAIRE Am) .MISER. 350 

give her his home, and one such as her father would- not 
object to her sharing. All this miserable feud and con- 
tention made her faint and heart-sick; but her part was 
clear — she must be the peace-maker, the reconciling me- 
dium by which all things should come right. And now she 
must go home to Mock- Beggar *and speak to her father. 
She must learn why he had countenanced the addresses of 
the man she disliked, when he had so grudgingly allowed 
those of the one she loved. Why Maurice and not Lan- 
freyr Was it always that question of the land and the 
eldest- born: 

Tempest-tossed, and feeling hei’self encompassed by dan- 
ger to which she could give nor shape nor name, Yetta 
went home and prepared for the most painful, if also the 
most important, interview of her life. She was touching 
the depths, and she knew that she had cause to fear the 
result. It was lifting the veil— for what face to be re- 
vealed? 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

BETWEEI^ TWO FIRES. 

When Yetta came back to her dreary home, the con- 
trast between its cold and meager arran^ments with the 
generous warmth and lavish light of the Knoll struck her 
with more than usual force. Though she still dutifully 
acquiesced in these meager arrangements, the full extent 
and meaning of which she had not seen at the first, she 
had become by now painfully alive to their shame, and 
wondered how a man so good and kind and noble as her 
father — how we cling to old shibboleths and the loving 
myths of childhood! — could bear to do the mean and shab- 
by things which were part of his daily domestic life. 

For her own part, she would have preferred the most 
modest appearances with a generous foundation rather than 
this pretentious grandeur where everything was skimped in 
quantity and bad in quality. Like most young people, 
she saw no good in the mere possession of money. Its use 
was its raison d'etre, and the enjoyment to be had out of 
it, the good to be done by it, its final cause. To hoard 
and not enjoy, nor yet dispense, was on a par with letting 
flowers wither on their stalks in a remote place where no 


360 PASTOX CAKEW, 

one profited by them. What a pity it was! and wbat a 
wretchedly incomplete home she had! 

She thought of all this as one does think of something 
quite apart from the central point at a grave crisis, the 
mind taking hold of trivialities as a kind of relaxation from 
the. terrible tension of the moment. Kever before had she 
been so conscious of the, misery of insufficient fire, of the 
cold air. that comes in from a window imperfectly draped, 
as she was now when sitting upstairs in her own little 
apartment, which yet was the least uncomfortable and best 
provided of any in the house — never, until she had per- 
force to forget these minor pains, and face the graver ques- 
tion— her contest with her father. It was indeed a grave 
one, and'the contest would be for life or death. Hitherto 
her life with her father had been one of perfect accord, 
outside that one divergence which now was to be made so 
much wider. She had cheerfully yielded to his will in re- 
gard to his domestic meanness, and she had never inquired 
too closely into those things he wished to keep from her. 
How she had to cross him openly, and it remained to be 
seen which would be the stronger — his love or his revenge. 

The ruin of the Clintons had been the one great hope 
and object of his life. Her marriage with either brother 
would destroy that hope — frustrate that object. By saving 
part of the family, a raft would be built for the rest; and 
that a Chnton should still be owner of the estate and mas- 
ter at 'the Hall, though only in virtue of his wife, would 
take away half the glory of his triumph. But if her heart 
was fixed, what then? Even Paston himself did not know; 
for now he was firm to refuse the marriage, no matter 
what the consequences to her, and now he felt that he must 
give up his cherished hope, which was the life-blood of his 
heart, rather than let his daughter suffer. She was Aline’s 
child, and to protect her from harm— to make her happy — 
was to be faithful to Aline’s memory, and to fulfill the sa- 
cred trust imposed on him by her death. StilL the contest 
was a terrible one, and no one could foresee which way it 
would finally turn. 

^ To her question why he had favored Maurice’s preten- 
sions, knowing her heart, her promise — a question put with 
more indignation than Paston could have supposed possible 
from Yetta to him— he answered with a coldness that 
matched her heat in both strangeness and intensity; he 


MILLIOIS'AIRE AND MISER. 


361 


acted as best pleased him, and did not hold himself ac- 
countable to her. But he was firmer in manner than he 
was fixed. in mind. He was like a Chinese strategist who 
withdraws his battery while painting his card-board fortifi- 
cations with formidable representations of murderous guns 
and grewsome warriors. He told her that he would never 
countenance her marriage with Lanfrey— never! If it had 
been Maurice, he might have sanctioned that. The eldest 
son and future owner was always a power, but the younger 
son was no match for her wherever found. She might 
marry, of course, when she was of full age, he said. That 
was not in his power to prevent. But she should not marry 
before; and then not with his consent. And as this young 
man — this Lanfrey Clinton — ^had absolutely nothing of his 
own, and was not yet capable of making his way — when 
the father^s allowance should cease, as it must and would, 
on what did they propose to live? Love was all very well 
for the romantic side of life, but bread and cheese was a 
necessity; and the bread and cheese to be found in a brief- 
less barrister's cupboard, without private means, was iden- 
tical with the Irishman's footless stocking without a leg. 
He put these things before her as a friend and father, both 
— indeed, as a friend more than as a father — and left them 
for her consideration. She had sense. She must use it now. 
At no time in her life was it more necessary than now. 

“ We will wait,^^ said Yetta, simply. 

‘‘Good! Where?^^ replied her father. “Here in my 
house? But a father^s home is only for. his dutiful chil- 
dren; it is not for the undutiful, the self-willed, and those 
who plot against his peace; still less is it for those who league 
themselves with his enemies, as you have done, Yetta. 

“ Why do you always call the Clintons enemies, father? 
What have they done to you? Tell me the whole story; in 
what have they been your enemies?^^ 

For a moment Paston hesitated. Should he tell her 
that whole story, with all its shame and sorrow, and then 
leave it to her very pride of love not to entangle Lanfrey in 
a marriage which his own people — even if ruined — ^would 
have the right to despise? Should he tell her, and thus make 
it clear to her why he had taken up the mortgages, and why 
he so coveted that estate as restitution?— his as it should have 
been from the beginning if his father, a Clinton, had done 
his manifest duty. Would she not then understand how 


362 


PASTON CAREW, 


he had rightfully planned and schemed to make it his own 
in the end? And would she, his child, whom he had so 
carefully tended and so fondly loved, thwart and oppose 
him for a love-sick dream* which would pass like all other 
dreams? How many women love in their early youth a 
man whom they mourn for a season, short or long accord- 
ing to their spiritual tenacity, and then find their happiness 
in his exact opposite? And she would be like those others. 
She would mourn -her lover for a season; but would she 
not rather aid in her father^s success than minister to her 
own desires? It was a temptation to say all this, and to 
tell her how things veritably were; for it would be a final 
blow. What if it should be fatal as well as final?. How 
would he feel then, if he had killed her as the first-fruits 
of his revenge? — a Virginius whose reeking knife no Ap- 
pius justified! 

The horror of this fear conquered the passion of his de- 
sire, and the words died on his lips. Only so much did he 
say: 

“ Ask me nothing, Yetta; but take this from me — the 
Clinton estate should have been mine from the beginning, 
and is mine by all the rules of right and justice; and the 
family are usurpers and my worst enemies — the worst a 
man could have. They have come to my feet now when 
they know that they are ruined and that I am their master; 
but you yourself saw how they treated me when we first 
came. By marrying this young man, one of the family, 
you play into their hands and ruin me; you prefer my en- 
emy to me.'"'’ 

“ But, dear father, my marriage would make us all 
friends; and is not peace better than war, and the reconcil- 
iation of enemies to be desired above all things? 

“No,^^ said Paston, harshly; war is for men, and a 
false peace is for slaves and fools. I have to carry out this 
fight to the bitter end, unless I would make myself a weak- 
ling and a mockery to myself. 

“ And does my promise to Lanfrey, does my love for 
him, count for nothing pleaded Yetta. 

‘‘ Less than my promise to myself — less than my right 
of vengeance,^' he answered. “ The past is of deeper im- 
portance than the present, and my wrongs are of graver 
moment than a love-sick girPs puling fancy. Men^s lives 
are not to be molded by a few ready tears, and the hope 


MILLIOXAIEE AND MISER. 


3(33 


which has supported me through all sorrows can not be 
abandoned that two foolish young people may kiss each 
other in the sunshine.'’^ 

“ Father! You believe in God and the Bible, how can 
you make your hate greater than love:'^ cried Yetta, with 
the thrill of loving passion. 

She took his hands and knelt on the floor at his feet, but 
he would not look at her. It took the fire out of his anger 
and the resolution from his revenge to meet* her sweet, 
grieving eyes and the pathetic tenderness of her face. 

It is useless,^'’ he said, hardening himself, like a sec- 
ond Pharaoh — ‘‘useless.^'’ 

“ Then why did you allow Lanfrey to hope even so much 
as you didr^'’ she urged, suddenly nerved by the imminence 
of her peril to a boldness of remonstrance strangely unlike 
her usual self. 

His long pent-up venom broke loose. He caught her by 
her shoulders, as she sat there on the ground before him, 
her body a little curved on itself,. her delicate hands clasped 
in each other, and her eyes uplifted to his. Bending over 
her he brought his face close to hers, as he liissed between 
his teeth: 

‘‘Why? To strike the deadlier blow when the time 
came. I let him hope, that he might know a yet more ex- 
quisite despair, and I a more exquisite joy in seeing the 
torture of my enemy 

All things faded from Yetta^s sight; all but her father^s 
face, and that became transformed. It was not that father 
as she knew him. It was some one else — some terrifying 
liend, ?.s much serpent as man, and more a murderer than 
a father. The very features were changed to her horror- 
struck imagination; and she saw him as he was in essential 
truth — saw the true lineaments of the hate-encumbered 
soul looking with flaming wrath into her flaming eyes. The 
Veiled Prophet was no longer the mystery of hidden glory 
she had believed. He was a human fiend, and this was the 
moment of revelation when his liideousness was laid bare 
before her. 

With a suppressed shriek, and then with a shuddering 
sigh, the girl fell forward in a loose, inert heap, struck to 
temporary death by the horror of this awful vision — this 
glimpse into the hell where her father's soul habitually 


364 


PAST05?' CABEW, 


dwelt — this demoniacal impersonation intc) which he had 
^rownbylong indulgence of evil passions — of sinful wishes. 

Then Pastori^s better self broke through this fiendish 
overlay, and the one sole angel of his nature — his love — 
reasserted its power. He took his daughter in his arms, 
and kissed her death-like face as he never sufl’ered himself 
to kiss her in her conscious hours. He hung oirer lier with 
that yearning so well k^iown to love, as if he would pour 
out- the power of his very life into hers, and by the sheer 
force of love and will bring her back to health and life. 
He said, in the low voice of one making a vow to God: 
“ My life! my daughter! my only living love, better me 
than you! You shall be saved if I have to perish. You 
shall not suffer if I have to undergo the torments of hell. 
You have conquered, and I am your sacrifice!'’^ Then he 
touched her lips superstitiously with his fingers, and looking 
up in a very ecstasy of belief, cried out, “ Aline, my wife, 
save your child, give her back to me !^^ 

Again he heard that rushing sound of wings, and again 
he seemed to see the light of eyes that loved looking at him 
through the veil of the atmosphere, and the dusky braids 
of hair falling like shadows in the distance. The room 
seemed full of some divine ethereal life — some grand invis- 
ible presence pervading the air like perfume and vivifying 
it like sunlight. And then, as if in answer to his prayer, 
and by the force of that divine power, the blood came back 
to the sweet face over which he was bending, and Yetta, 
opening her eyes, saw her father and no fiend. Her father, 
like some majestic god — rendered divine by the beauty of 
love and holiness — bending over her, watching her as ten- 
derly as a lover, with hands that touched her as softly as a 
mother ^s. 

For a moment there was silence. When she tried to 
speak he checked her, holding her hand in his, and feeling 
how the pulse came slowly back to its full beat. He had 
resolved on his course. Cost him what it might, he would 
not harm her. It would not be his full revenge; but if 
something less than he had planned for, it would not be all 
barren, and he had still a great deal left. She should marry 
Lanfrey. It was always a Clinton truly who would be at 
the Hall — always one of his foes; but it would be a Clinton 
of his own making — the younger brother put into the place 
of power, and the dispossession of the elder. Lanfrey. would 


MILLION A IRE AND MISER. 3f>5 

be his. puppet, his work — Rnd he would have saved her hap- 
piness. But she was not able to bear too large a measure 
of joy, following so quickly on anguish so great as to inter- 
fi'upt her life; and Paston led her to the divine heights of 
peace by slower steps than would have contented her loving 
impatience had she seen the end from the beginning. • 

He told her she was to trust to him, her father. Had 
he ever failed her? thwarted her wishes from a child up to 
now? given her unhappiness? shown her indifference? Was 
she in her right to doubt him? Would she not do better to 
trust in him? He had given his permission that she and 
Lanfrey Clinton might correspond, with the ultimate object 
of marriage. What other object could he have had? If, 
madtlened by the memory of iiis wrongs, he had yielded to 
a passionate outburst of wrath, was that of greater value 
than his word? Let it be forgotten. He was sorry that 
he had spoken so bitterly. He did not know% indeed, what 
he had said; but whatever it was, it was a futile threat. 
She should not be made unhappy. Here before God and 
the spirit of her beloved mother he swore it — she should 
marry Lanfrey Clinton! Then he raised her from the 
couch where he had placed her in her faintness, and pressed 
her to him as if with the last pressure" of death. And Yetta 
felt his heart beat against her own as she had never felt hu- 
man heart beat before. How should she? She had never 
assisted at such a conflict, nor witnessed the strain of such 
a conquest. 

Meanwhile things were no- more peaceful, nor were the 
Jbours more roseate, at the Hall than here. Maurice^s for- 
lorn hope had failed. He had been repulsed and beaten 
back, and he could do no more. To carry off Yetta by 
main force, and marry her whether she would or no, was on 
the cards, and might wm the trick if well played; but, on 
second thoughts, it was scarcely feasible. She was not an 
heiress in her own right, and her father might disinherit 
her, and probably would, if she consented to this union so 
much, say, as Mary consented to Both well. But she was 
not in love with him, Maurice, and she might demand the 
dissolution of her marriage, made under compulsion, 
rather than consent to live her life with him. Spoiled as 
she would be for any other, specially spoiled for Lanfrey, 
she might be recalcitrant and uncomfortable; and ifi either 
case he would have come no nearer to his desire than when 


^IGC) PASTON CAHEW, 

the Thessalian clasped the cloud and thought it a goddess. 
Tlither contingency was destruction to his plan, and the 
plan itself was , too wild to-be possible. Yet outside that 
forcible abduction, which would not work, he saw no way 
of light for liimself and no escape for his people; for he too 
felt the truth of what Paston had said to himself^ — Lanfre}^, 
though a Clinton, would be Paston Carew^s creation as 
owner of the estate, his puppet and his tool. Still, that 
was all they could do. Distasteful as it was, it was their 
last resource. Lanfrey must be written to, and sent for to 
come home — his pretensions must be recognized and his 
position assured. It was the last hope, the last chance, and 
they must utilize it. So low had the pride of the Great 
House fallen now when the fact of their ruin was before 
them. 

We are good only for the trials we can undergo. The 
heated heroisms of fancy are often of no more substance 
than the gossamer of a summer^s evening. Trial is the" 
touch-stone which shows how much real grip we have — how 
much is clean grit, and the rest inud and shale — how true 
we can be to ourselves, independent of the world's verdict 
— how faithful to principle, indifferent to the blame or re- 
proach of others. 

The Clinton pride had been that gossamer web of the 
summer's evening. It had been fair and delicate to view; 
but when strained by the rude' touch of misfortune it had 
torn, and was now a mere wisp of broken threads lying on 
the way-side weeds. 

Lady Jane wept and French swore; but tears and big 
words do nothing to repair the damage done by fate, and 
the only thing before them was that humiliating letter to 
Lanfrey, telling him that at last they sanctioned his pro- 
posed marriage with Yetta Carew, which was the virtual 
disinheritance of his elder brother and the lawful heir. 


CHAPTEE XL. 

DISCOVEKED. 

The mills of God grind slowly, but the bolts bf heaven 
fall swiftly; and one fell on Jim Sherwood when least ex- 
pected or foreseen. The old man went to bed, no less and 
no moi’e in health than he had been of late; with no less 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


367 


and no more of the conscious heart-break of disappoint- 
ment. When the morning broke it was' found that, the 
Reaper had passed by in the night, and that this once stout 
and now withered haulm had been gathered into the eter- 
nal harvest. Silently, unwatched, untended, he had fallen 
.into the sleep which knows no waking, and had crossed the 
great river whence is no passage of return. His day^s 
work was done. His life, with its delusive dream, its loyal 
tenacity through all its sorrowful awakening, had gone 
back to its elements, and only his name now remained as 
a memory and a landmark. 

The Clintons were half-shocked and half -relieved by this 
sudden death. Jim had become like some faithful hound 
of good breed and former service whom age had rendered 
mangy and surly, and useless for his allotted purpose. For 
the last year or so his work had been too much for him. 
Indeed, French had been obliged to supplement his feeble- 
ness by younger activities; and in the state in which the 
family finances were, even •the wages of an assistant head 
gamekeeper were regarded as a severe tax, seeing that the 
outlay brought no personal gratification to the master. So 
that the loss of the faithful old fellow was not an unmiti- 
gated evil to the House he had served so long and loyally; 
and orthodox Christians as the Clintons were, in this in- 
stance the meat did rank above the life. 

To Patty the blow at the first moment was heavy enough. 
In spite of that gin-bottle which danced vaguely before her 
eyes, and the pleasures of unrestricted wallowing which 
were as a whispered song of hope in her ears, she felt the 
desolation of her state, and wished that she could bring 
back from the grave that strong sustaining hand, even 
though it had been somewhat hard and tight, and had so 
often made her wince and whimper. She was like some 
weak-backed creature unharnessed and left to the mercy of 
its own feebleness; and she would rather have had the bit 
in her mouth, and have felt the whip against her flanks, 
than this thing which the world calls freedom, and which 
she knew to be desolation. 

French and my lady meant to be kind to the poor wom- 
an. The loneliness and destitution of this half-dazed anom- 
alous sister of their old retainer appealed to their com- 
passion as well as to that fine-grained pride of place which 
is best expressed in those two majestic words, nohlessQ. 


368 


PASTOK CAREW, 


oblige. This ancient shibboleth of their order, which once 
both justified its creation and excused the servility of its 
creators, was still in part the Clinton watchword; and 
their nobility obliged them to take care of Mrs. Richard. 
Hence my lady graciously said that she should come to the 
Hall to live, and then they should know that she was looked 
after and well off. She might have that back attic next 
to the lumber-room; and she would earn her keep by do- 
ing odd little jobs of working and serving in the kitchen, 
such as were within her mental capacity and not beyond 
the measure of her physical powers. So as soon as the 
funeral was over, they sent down the spring-cart for Mrs. 
Richard and her box, with anything of Jimp’s property that 
would be useful, and was not too cumbersome, for which 
she had a fancy. And my lady thought she had done well, 
as she sincerely and truly intended to do. 

But when the scheme was propounded to Mrs. Richard, 
and the spring-cart with the comfortable cushions on the 
seat was before the door — the same cart as Jim had taken 
when he had brought her home from the station — ,the indig- 
nity, judging by the past, was too much for Patty to bear, 
and she flatly refused to go. Jim had impressed on her 
so often and so strongly the vital necessity of the most 
careful reticence as to the truth of her personality, that 
she had thoroughly learned the lesson and abided by it. 

, Still she was Mrs. Patty for all that. She had been the 
mistress of the Hall as completely, if not so honorably, as 
my lady herself. She had ruled in a grand and reveled in 
a modest way; and she had been the lawful wife of a no- 
bleman, albeit one. who for prudential motives kept his 
patent in his pocket and concealed his coronet under his 
wide-awake. To propose to her that she should go to the 
Hall as a pensioner, herding with the servants, as of lower 
condition and baser quality than they — to offer her a bed 
in the attic next the lumber-room — she 'whose luxurious 
apartment had been that which my lady now occupied — to 
put her where she would have to say “ miss to the lady’s- 
maid and ma’am ’’ to the cook, where the butler would 
refuse to sit at the same table with her, and where she 
might not be free of the servants’ hall — no! — if she died by 
the way-side, no! 

The good sense, good temper, and shrewd eyes ever fixed 
on the main chance which had characterized Patty Carew 


MILLIOlfAIEE AKD MISER. 369 

when the Creature, failed her now as this later embodiment, 
old Goody Richard, Jim Sherwood^s sister. Former pride 
was too strong for present prudence; and the question. of 
bread and butter was thrown to the winds in revolt at the 
shape of the platter in which it was olfered. 

“Rather the work-house at. once said Patty, in a 
flame. “ I have not come down yet to my lady^s scraps. 

“ Better her scraps, missis, than the Union skilly,^' 
said the under-gamekeeper, soothingly. “ You might do 
worse, depend onH; for Jim there couldn^t have saved 
more than a trifle, and you don^t look very lit to take care 
neither of yourself nor of your money. And I doubt if you 
could earn yourself a crust between dawn and dark, work 
as hard as you might. So think twice, missis, before you 
refuse a good offer. 

“ I^d liefer die!^^ said Patty, beating the air with her 
hands. 

The men looked helplessly at each other, not knowing 
what to do. There were my lady’s orders on the one side, 
with the cottage a- wanted by the new head; and here, on 
the other, was a protesting air-beating old woman saying 
she would not and she would not; and they might kill her 
before they should; and come what might she would not; 
and so there then — let them touch her if thej^ dared! 

It was not exactly the kind of thing that the family, or 
my lady hesrelf, would like, to carry her by main force 
across the park, and so to the Hall, shrieking and shout- 
ing “like a rung pig,’' said one, “ like an old bletherun- 
skate,” said the other.' They lost a good half-hour of 
working time, doing their best to bring the daft old don- 
nert to reason. But they could not; So they left her, and 
carried the story of their failure and her obstinacy to my 
lady, waiting for her living packet at home. And they 
said to each other that a night’s solitude and reflection 
would bring her to her senses, and that to-morrow she 
would do what she ought to have done to-day. 

When Lady Jane heard of this ungrateful rebelliousness 
she was angry — as was but natural. No one likes to have 
his charity rejected, and when we mean to do kindly it is 
not pleasant to have shrieks and protestations as the an- 
swer. We are not specially well pleased with even a child, 
irresponsible and without sense as it is, who scratches our 
face when we stoop to kiss; and the clinched fist of the 


370 


PASTON CAREW. 


adult is so much the more hurtful. Wherefore my Lady 
Jane left the old rebel to her fate, for at least this one 
night, saying: ‘‘I hope the rats will frighten her, and 
then she will be glad enough to come! For of course we 
can not let her starve or go to the work-house ; and it will 
be such an unnecessary, expense to board her out any- 
where, when she might live here for nothing 

“ She is an obstinate old fool,^^ said French, with energy. 
“ She must take what is offered her. She can not stay 
where she is, and she must not be allowed to go to the 
House. 1^11 ride over to-morrow and bring her to reason. 
Perhaps it is not worth while, he added, with sudden 
realization of how things stood. ‘‘We may not have it so 
long in our power to offer her a home anywhere 

“ No battle is lost till it is won,*^^ said Lady Jane, brisk- 
ly. “ And you know the old saying that when things are 
at the worst they must mend?'^ 

Passive courage and active hope — the work of the woman 
— had fallen to my lady^s share in large quantity of late. 
Had it not been for her, French would have collapsed, and 
perhaps would have thrown up the sponge; but she held on 
and held up, and always said she refused to believe in their 
ruin until the auctioneer was in the house sticking his Lots 
on the furniture. 

French put his broad hand under her pointed positive 
chin. 

“ Old love,^^ he said, affectionately. “ Without you, 
Jane, I should be like a mariner without a compass. 

She smiled with evident pleasure. She did not care for 
the caress, but she did relish the confession. For all their 
married life she had been toiling to impress her husband 
with the sense of her moral and intellectual superiority, and 
to bend his will to hers. Now when she had touched the 
•acme of her desires she said to herself that she would never 
let go the reins again. Her husband was her moral vassal, 
and she was the best man of the two. Wherefore my Lady 
Jane piously blessed Providence in that some good is al- 
ways to be found in every evil — the ill wind here that had 
blown so smartly on the Clinton fortunes, bringing with it 
the good of that marital subjugation which every woman 
thinks to be both righteousness and her due, and which 
Lady Jane, chief of all women, held to be her fair share in 
the division of influence. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


371 


“Two heads are better than one/^ she said, prettily. She 
never committted the mistake of showing the end of the 
ferule. “ And women sometimes see a little more clearly 
than men.^^ 

‘ ‘ More in detail, said Trench, with generous concession 
of a minor quality. 

“ More in detail,^ ^ repeated my lady, demurely. 

Mary James, the upper house-maid, was a girl with a 
kind heart, a loose tongue, unbounded curiosity, and a 
will of her own not amenable to discipline. Asking leave 
of no one, she put on her bonnet and jacket, her gloves and 
her mulf, and walked away in the early evening with the 
under-butler, who fancied her — and whom she fancied in 
her turn — ^to visit this living riddle who had been hidden 
for all these months, like so much contraband, in Jim 
Sherwood '’s cottage. It would have been as much , as their 
lives were worth to go while Jim was alive. He suffered 
no one from the Hall, nor yet from the village, to set foot 
in his cottage: and Yetta Carew was the only person who 
had crossed the threshold since his somewhat mysterious 
sister had taken the floor. Now he was gone, and the way 
was clear. 

Wherefore Mary James busked herself becomingly, and 
engaging the under-butler as her escort, walked across the 
park to see this old woman who had dared dispute my 
lady^s will, and learn why she refused to come up to the 
Hall. At least she would have had her food and lodging 
free, and need not have been tormented about to-mor- 
row; so why had she not come? To be sure, the servants 
were all glad of her refusal. They rather resented the 
prospect of an old body among them wht) was not one of 
themselves, and would be neither a companion with the 
superiors nor an equal worker with the inferiors. 

She would be a betwixt-and-between kind of thing, as 
the cook said, with her nose in the air— neither fish nor 
fowl — and very likely a spy and a plague; but Mary James 
was a girl of a lively, fidgeting, ferreting kind of nature, 
fond of change and diversion, and she stood out for old 
Mrs. Richard as stoutly as if she knew her. And to clinch 
all she went over to the cottage to see- her with her own 
eyes, and hear what account she gave of herself. And the- 
under-butler went with her. 

Patty received her visitors with her grand air; when she 


872 


PASTOK CAREW, 


knew who they were and where they came from, fearing a 
snare and scenting danger, she, was very quiet, very reti- 
cent, and as dignified as if her dirty old. black lace cap had 
been a viscountesses coronet; so that Mary was in the be- 
ginning somewhat awed, and considerably taken aback. 
But the love of chatter and gossip inherent in the ordinary 
female mind soon made the old creature drop her artificial 
superiority, and fall into the slipshod colloquialism of her 
kind and origin. The under-butler, too, had smuggled 
over a pint bottle of sherry, and Mary had a paper bag full 
of sweet cakes and tartlets; and the unwonted drop with 
the unusual delicacies warmed Patty^s heart and loosened 
her tongue and ears. 

She listened to all they told her about the family, and 
asked questions which astonished the two, who, tenants^ 
children as they were, knew less of the by-gone history than 
did Jim Sherwood ^s sister — this Mrs. Richard who had 
never lived in the place since she w^as a mere lassie. She 
spoke a good deal about old Maurice, whom she called 
“ the master in my time;^^ and she spoke of him with a 
shrill respect' that rebuked Mary^s off-hand sneers and 
snubs. But she let the famous housekeeper alone. Only 
when Mary fired a broadside into her character, calling her 
a bold, bad, brazen-faced slut, only then did Mrs. Richard 
give tongue in her behalf. She gave tongue so warmly, 
and she looked so grand — the sherry glistening in her 
faded eyes, and swelling afresh her withered lips — that 
Mary James looked at her in amaze, asking in a kind of 
hushed voice, subdued by awe, “ Did you know her, Mrs. 
Richard 

To which answered the transformed and transmuted 
Creature: / ‘Yes, I did; and she was as fine a woman as 
ever stepped; as good and — ay, though I say it as shouldn’t 
— as handsome as you’d see in a long summer’s day. She 
did her duty, did Mrs. Patty; and she was ill done by by 
those who owed her so much.” • 

“ She went to London, did she not?” asked Mary. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Richard. “ And there she married a 
real French nobleman, and drove in her carriage to see the 
queen.” 

“ Lord, now! only to think!” said Mary. “ After such 
a life to hook a live nobleman! What chance is there for 
us good girls when such hussies like this get the pickings!” 


AKD MISER. 


m 


Hussy yourself! She was no more a hussy than you, 
you bold pie!^^ said Patty, in a fume. “ Speak of your 
equals, and leave your betters alone 

“ Lor^ ma^am, I am sure I didn’t want to put you 
about,” said Mary, good-naturedly. “I have no call to 
speak bad of the woman, for I never knew her; and my 
mother didn’t know much of her neither.” 

“ And who was your mother, girl?” asked Mrs. Rich- 
ard, superbly. 

At this moment she was once more Mrs. Patty Carew, 
the housekeeper, who managed the Great Hall, engaged 
and discharged such tradesmen and servants as she would, 
and drove about the country by her master’s side, in her 
velvets and her furs like any lady of the land. 

“ My father was the forester, and my mother worked off 
days at the Hall, ” said Mary. 

“ I remember,” said Mrs. Richard; and then looked tim- 
orously round. 

If Jim should have heard her! She knew what that ad- 
mission would cost her if he should! But Jim was not 
there; •and then the remembrance of things real and actual 
swept those of the past from her thoughts, and she put up 
her apron and began to whimper, rocking herself to and 
fro, and saying: “ My poor Jim! my poor old Jim! — and 
oh, what will I do, now he has been taken away!” 

“ Don’t take on like that, missis,” said Sam Warner, 
the under-butler, wliile Mary good-naturedly pressed an- 
other glass of sherry on the whimpering mourner, and 
patted her shoulder by way of consolation. 

After a short time spent in these offices of condolence, 
the girl turned the talk on to the present family and the 
young ladies, of each of whom she gave an account more 
graphic than flattering; for Miss Clinton was sniffed at for 
not having enough pride, and Miss Sophia was condemned 
for having too much, and Miss Rose was called a dolly, and 
Miss Laura a pert minx; and with that bit of mild blas- 
phemy unloaded off her soul, Mary felt lighter and freer. 
The young gentlemen fared better at her hands. That 
was but according to the eternal law. The young ladies 
did not seem very likely to find husbands, said Mary, but 
the young gentlemen had not far to go for wives. There 
was that Miss Shillibeer as didn’t know how to look when 


£J74 


PASTON OARP-Wj 


the captain was by; and then there was Miss Carew — she 
was like enough to be one day mistress at the Hall. 

Mrs.' Eichard was still too watery and mixed, both by 
her heated defense of her former self and her maudlin 
tears for Jim, to take much heed of what her gossiping 
visitor was saying. But those words, “ Miss Carew is 
like enough to be one day mistress of the Hall,^^ broke up 
the vague mists overloading her mind, as the wind blows 
away the fog, and made all that had been blurred stand 
out sharp and clear. 

“ It will be a fine match for whoever gets her,^- contin- 
ued Mary; ‘‘for they do say that her father, though as 
close as a cat, is richer than the queen herself, and she 
will come in for all. How much do they say, ISam, Mr. 
Carew has a year? It^s two millions, anyhow. 

“ What Carew?’^ asked Patty, alive, alert, awake — her 
old keen, trenchant understanding restored, like a ruin 
suddenly rebuilt. 

“Mr. Paston Carew, said Mary. “Him as lives at 
Mock-Beggar.^-’ 

“ Mr. Paston Carew?^^ said Patty, in a shrill voice. 
“ Who is he? Where does he come from? What is.he?^’ 

“Lord! did Sherwood never tell you about him? said 
Mary. “ He came from India about two years ago, and he 
is nobody in particular. He is that housekeeper’s son we 
were speaking of. And there is no one on this side Jordan 
knows why he came here, where his birth and all are so 
well known. But here he is, at Mock-Beggar, sure enough; 
and his daughter often visits at the Hall, and they are 
talking of her and the captain. Lord love the woman! 
what’s the matter with her?” she exclaimed in terror, as 
Patty, rising from her seat, hfted her hand to heaven, and 
looking like some old Hecate, grand, severe, demoniacal, 
triumphant, said, in an awful voice: “Jim Sherwood, 
lying there in your grave, I curse you for the wrong you 
have done me ! But now I’ll have my revenge, and it will 
make you turn in your grave to see it.” 

Then she shut her mouth like a trap, and not all Mary’s 
inducements could persuade her to speak again. 


MILLIOKAIRE AKD MISER. '^376 


CHAPTER XLL 

THE GIFT OF THE MIGHT. 

It was the way of the world. She had filled his thoughts 
and shared his substance; drained his life and destroyed his 
happiness. He had given her his faith, his love, his ideal- 
izing reverence, and the worth of his right hand. With 
pain and trouble to himself he had kept her from her worst, 
enemy, herself, and had brought her back, so far as she 
could be brought back, to cleanliness and the right way. 
And now she cursed him as he lay dead in his grave. 

In this humble little tragedy, which for all theater had 
but a gamekeeper's cottage, the triumph of ingratitude 
and the sore fate of love were as clearly set forth as on the 
-grandest boards of history and romance. Love, which had 
served and sorrowed and done the best it knew for the be- 
loved, had been treated as an enemy; and the life which 
had been rescued h^ turned in fierce revenge against its 
rescuer. And yet it was all in ignorance rather than will- 
ful sinfulness; for ignorance of causes and motives is the 
true serpent by which women are seduced and men de- 
ceived. 

Patty did not understand the full value of what Jim had 
done for her. So she cursed him. She only knew that he 
had kept her here in his cottage in comparative poverty, 
debarred from all society, and with no more liberty than if 
she had been a child or a maniac. And all the while her 
son, Pastpn the millionaire, was living at but a few miles' 
distance — at Mock-Beggar, where, if she had had her rights, 
she would have been at the least an honored guest, if not 
mistress of all. But now the secret was out, and she had 
still time before her both to repair the loss her cruel jailer 
had caused her, and to avoid that still greater danger of 
the Hall. This thought was even worse than the other. 
She to be taken into my lady's kitchen; she who had been 
the mistress where now she was asked to live on scraps and 
scrub the pots; she who had been the lawful wife of a no- 
bleman — a black blackguard, if you will, she thought, but 
all the same a nobleman; she who was at this very moment 


37e 


PASTON CAREW^ 


the mother of a man who might call the queen his cousin; 
she whom fortune had marked out for such great things, 
and who might have been all this time so grand and fine — 
to have been kept by Jim Sherwood as his sister, and de- 
nied even so much as a drop of gin for her comfort! And 
now to be haled to the Hall, whether she would or no, as 
part pauper, part menial! No! not if she died for it! 

The fever in her blood brought back the strength of 
youth to Patty. She was no longer the decrepit old char- 
woman, enfeebled by age and rendered half -imbecile by 
dissipation. She was strong, active, awake, and in the full 
possession of her senses. The wine had given her courage 
and a fiood of new life. Her mind was as clear as her step 
was firm and her will resolute. When she shut the door 
on Mary James and her lover, she sat down for a moment 
to take breath, gain time, and finish that glad Providence 
of wine. Not another night should pass before she had 
ckimed her son's protection. To-morrow those fiends 
would take her by the throat and lock her up in that back^ 
attic whence she could never escape, and where the rats' 
would devour her alive. 

Her story would not be believed. All these great people 
hang on together, and an outsider has no chance. And 
what proof had she? She had lived here with Jim Sher- 
wood as his sister for many months past — how make them 
understand that she was no more sib to him than my Lady- 
Jane herself? — that she was indeed Mrs. Patty, the mother 
of the rich owner of Mock-Beggar? It could not be done. 
All that remained to her was fiight, and the safety of her 
son's house before the morning. 

^ ’ d bonnet, and stepped out into 



which led in the direction of 


Mock- Beggar. She knew it well enough. The short cut 
across the park and by the fields; she was sure that she 
should find it, though it was so many years since last she 
had gone that way. The last time had been when Paston 
was a boy about sixteen — after Humphrey had come to the 
place— when she had gone in a kind of bravado to show 
herself, if need be, and assert her position. Whatever they 
might think of it. 

The night was cold and dark and stormy. The rain was 
falling fast; there was no moon, and the stars were hidden 
behind the fast-fiying clouds; but Patty walked on across 


MILLION-AIIIE AKD MISER. 377 

the park as if she had had the eyes of a night-bird, to whom 
the darkness was as the light.* She did not make a trip 
nor a mistake, but went on as straight as an arrow — her 
one sole feeling that of escape from the Clintons, and of 
safety with her son. She walked well and even swiftly. 
No one who had seen her would have thought her a woman 
past seventy, and feeble at that — the wine still warmiiig her, 
the fever in her blood still supporting her. So far, too, 
she had had the direction of the straight way across the 
park, and now of the high-road skirting the palinss. She 
could scarcely have made a mistake, and she had not a 
thought of misgiving for the rest. Indeed, she walked on 
without much consciousness of any kind, not thinking of 
the way, but only of her wrongs against Jim, her hatred of 
my lady, and the bright prospect opening before her. 

She came to the lane turning off the high-road, at the 
end of which was the stile leading into the fields. In the 
dark, as it was, she made for it almost without knowing; 
and turned down between the stone fence till she came to 
the slate “ throughs which formed the rude steps to the 
unmorfared wall. She climbed up and over; and then set 
forward again over the unsheltered fields in the direction 
as she knew it. By this time the cold of the winter ^s 
night, the driving rain, and the boisterous wind had 
checked that fever which hitherto had upheld her. She 
began to feel chilled, a little numbed, a little exhausted; 
hut she went on over the stiff clay ground so far without a 
mistake, though more consciously as well as more toilsome- 
ly than before; and ever the more toilsomely as the more 
consciously. 

At last the strain and fatigue began to tell in earnest; 
and that strange intuitive perception which had been like 
an enlightened inner vision, leading her without knowl- 
edge or participation, slackened as a fire dies down, and 
left her only her natural senses and the dark, dead, stormy 
night. Then she lost her strength, her courage, her direq.- 
tion. She heard the creaking of the branches as they 
swayed in the wind, afid the sharp stinging of the smaller 
twigs whipped smartly together; and she stopped and 
trembled, not realizing what it was she heard, and think- 
ing these were the cries of some creature in pain, pursued 
by something stronger than itself, who would soon be after 
her too. She shrieked, so that she frightened the beast 


578 


PASTON CAREW, 


itself, and set a distant colley barking, as a horse at the 
other side of the hedge thrust his nose against the bare 
branches and snorted his greeting to this unknown living 
thing. She stumbled over the raised ruts of the cart-track 
and over the hillocks of the pasture; splashed into the 
pools; hit her feet against the jutting stones. She lost her 
way, and beat against the storm in vain. 

She fell against the hedge by slipping down into the 
ditch, but she could not find an exit. The gate of which 
she was in search was at the other side of the field, and 
she vainly tried to pierce the close barrier of that quickset 
thorn. For hours long sjie wandered through • and about 
these fields. She had torn her shawl to tatters; her bon- 
net had slipped from her head, and hung half-way down 
her back; her gray hair had escaped from its fastenings, 
and fell lank and dripping over her face. She was terri- 
fied by the weird noises of the night, and buffeted by its 
wild fury; and then at last, weary and half-dead, she 
gained the gate, the lane, and the same kind of rough stile 
as that over which she had already passed — this second one 
giving access to a co2)se bordering the park at Mock-Beg- 
gar. 

Here the thicker darkness, because of the trees, still 
more bewildered her. She had very little remembrance of 
the way, and she had lost her abnormal power. She knew, 
however, so much, that this rude stile was because of a 
right of way across the park, and that this way crossed the 
broad drive which led to the house. She followed the path 
through the copse as she best could, stumbling and falling 
often, till the lighter atmosphere and the broad gray road 
told her that she must turn to the right and follow it on to 
the house. She was by now foot-sore, exhausted, chilled to 
the bone, drenched to the skin. Nothing but the last 
flicker of her old indomitable spirit held her together. Over 
and over again she thought that she must lie down and 
die; but the fierce desire that she had to be avenged on Jim . 
for keeping her from the wealth she might have shared 
stood her in stead of strength, and she stumbled and stag- 
gered on like a blind creature lashed forward. At last the 
house rose dark and threatening before her; and noiselessly 
opening a small gate in the fence, she went through into 
the immediate garden, and so up to the door. 

When she got there a sudden fear seized her. With her 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


879 


hand on the bell, she stood shivering; then drew it back, 
terrified now that this thing which she had set out to do 
was upon her. How if Paston denied her — refused to 
believe her? She had sometimes of late almost doubted 
her own individuality. If he set the dogs on lierr— how 
they yelled and barked in their yard! Pray God they were 
not loose! If he drove her back into the inclement night 
with blows and curses? Had she done wisely, after all, to 
come like this and at such a time? Had Jim ‘indeed known 
best? Besides, it was now so late! The house was black 
and silent, like a tomb. No one was up. If she rang, she 
should make no one hear! 

With a low moan she turned away from the hall-door, 
thinking that perhaps she might light on some indication 
of a servant — some pitiful woman, or stalwart man who 
would be good to her and humane. That would be better 
for her than to ring at the hall-door and demand speech of 
her son. Mother as she might be, she was none the less a 
beggar; and a beggary’s place best suited her. 

Wandering round, she came upon a window whence a 
feeble ray, falling through the crack of a shutter, showed 
that a light was burning within, and that some one at least 
was still up and about. She knocked at the window — at 
first timidly, then more loudly, the pointed ends of her long 
curved nails making a sound more like that of a bird tap- 
ping than of a human being knocking. 

Paston was at his table, occupied in that nightly search 
which closed the calculations of the day. With Planchette, 
his tarots, and a magic crystal, he was doing his best to 
pry into the secrets of life, death, futurity, and to learn 
the mysteries of creation and eternity. And ever as time 
went on and manipulation became easier, things grew 
clearer to him; the answers to his questions were more defi- 
nite; his directions were more positive; and his own mind, 
seeing what it brought, created its world in constantly in- 
creasing strength and vigor. He did not notice how 
Planchette followed his own thoughts, and how it prom- 
ised vengeance when he was bent on vengeance; and now, 
to-night, how it counseled self-abnegation for Yetta^s sake, 
over whom both mother and grandmother watched so lov- 
ingly. The difference between the objective and the sub- 
jective — that which is given front without and that which 
is evolved ffrom within — ^has been a trap wherein have been 


380 


PASTON CAREW, 


caught more than Paston Carew, and will be again. But 
checked in the path he had followed like a blood-hound for 
so many years, turned back from revenge by love, torn by 
so many conflicting emotions, ^nd scarcely knowing which 
was the strongest, the miser might be excused in that he 
sought for direction even in the clouds, and utilized his 
superstitious instincts for his own benefit at this difficult 
pass. 

Of the reality of the spirits which were ever about him 
he had no more doubt than of the reality of his own exist- 
ence. Mother and wife were ever there — ever with him. 
His father never came. After Octavia's first essay, no 
message with his signature was delivered. For he was un- 
forgiven; and without Love was no attraction. But those 
other two sweet souls consoled and advised him. They 
wrote words of love which made his heart swell with grati- 
tude and joy, which brought the tears to his eyes, and 
choked liis lean throat so that he was sometimes forced to 
sob aloud. He felt their presence as surely as he felt the 
presence of the sunlight, and with more intensity of con- 
sciousness than he felt the presence even of his daughter. 
Where she spoke to his outward senses, these beloved ones 
were manifest to his inner self— to his deepest soul. • He 
could almost see them. They promised that they, would 
make themselves manifest as visible presences; and he 
knew that some day this power would be granted him, and 
that he should see them as he remembered them. His wife 
would be in the fair luster of her fresh young flower-like 
beauty, his mother in the fuller majesty of her redeemed 
and purified personality. 

Like thO first faint indications of a dissolving view, their 
faces were already forming themselves in the air; and to- 
night they were more definite than before. He strained 
his eyes into the dim shadows of the room, so poorly light- 
ed by that one candle as to give possibilities wherever he 
looked. He seemed to see the outlines of those two figures, 
both clad in white, their feet concealed — the one taller, 
larger than the other, but both looking at him with divine 
eyes full of love. 

The boy’s love broke out, mingled with an awful kind of 
reverence for the one, the man’s yearning passion filled him 
with a very ecstasy of grief and adoration for the other. 
He stretched out his arms. Mother! wife! assure me of 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 381 

your presence; assure me of your life and love, and how in 
the future I shall find you both again!^^ he cried. 

Then he heard the tapping at the window — more like a 
bird than a human hand. 

The blood stood still round his heart, and the hair lifted 
itself from his forehead. He knew the old belief — what 
old beliefs did he not know; — how the spirits of the dead 
sometimes come back as birds: and Aline had loved birds. 
He started from his chair and went to the window, where 
the knocking was repeated. He trembled Like a leaf in the 
wind, lost to the possibility of a ruse on the part of some 
evil-disposed marauder thirsting for his treasures; the 
larger thought — the greater desire — stifling that liitherto 
omnipresent fear. 

11 e unbarred the shutter and opened the window. 
Should he find on the sill that white dove which he would 
take to his bosom and cherish as the tabernacle of his love? 
He scarcely knew what he expected. Weak, and yet 
strained by awe and expectation, he looked out into the 
black night — where Aline was waiting for him. 

There was no dove. There was but a wild, white, with- 
ered face, with grizzled elf-locks falling down on either 
side, and streaks of blood, where the thorns had torn and 
the sharp jagged ends of stones had wounded the flesh, to 
add to its ghastliness. It was a face he did not know and 
could not recognize — surely the face of a demon or some 
Banshee come to foretell woe and death. 

“ Paston, do you not know me? I am your mother!” 
wailed the feeble voice. ‘‘ Take me in — I am dying!” 

“ You are some fiend come to tempt me. My mother is 
dead,” said Paston. 

The withered hands raised themselves to the black heaven 
above. 

“ I swear it! I am your mother, and you are my son!” 
she said again. 

‘‘ Back into the darkness whence you came — back and 
leave my soul in peace!” he cried, hastily shutting the 
window and barring the shutter against the awful face 
pressed in one last despairing effort against the glass. 

Once more, and only once, the bird-like tapping was re- 
peated; but Paston did not move from his place, where he 
sat wjth his head buried in his hands, and the fear of hell 
in his heart. 


- 383 • PASTON CAKEW, 

Then the gravel gave back the sound of a staggering 
step, and the dogs bayed and barked afresh. Then all was 
still. Only the howling of the wind, and the pattering of 
the rain, and the sharp small cry of some unseen creature 
hurrying beneath the withered twigs and sodden leaves 
that had fallen in autumn on the ground, fell on the ear of 
the night as a feeble old woman sunk down beneath the 
trees, and died as a repulsed beggar in the domain of her 
son the millionaire. 

The next day all Beaton Brows was astir. It flew like 
wild-fire about the place how an old tramp had been found 
dead in the grounds at Mock-Beggar, repeating the old 
legend, and for the second tim6 justifying the ill-omened 
name; and who was she? No one knew. She was just 
one of the nameless waifs and strays of humanity, who 
are like bubbles on the seething pot of life, and like 
bubbles burst and vanish into nothingess. She was 
a tramp, a creature with a human form devoid of all hu- 
man interest. She was of no more value to the world she 
had left than if she had been a dead sparrow or a starved 
field-mouse; and the common humanity which is born of 
such a life does not go very deep with man. Still, the 
master ^s rights had to be respected, and Pas ton was called 
to view this bundle of rags and wretchedness lying there in 
a death-stricken heap beneath the trees, where she had 
struck herself and fallen. The rain had sodden her cloth- 
ing; her face was bruised and battered, torn and covered 
with streaks of thickened blood; her white hair was matted 
with blood and mud and rain; her empty hands were 
clinched in the last spasm of despair. Here, within sight 
. of the Great House and within hail of the Lodge, a fellow- 
creature had sunk and perished for want of the food and 
warmth and shelter those others who lived therein had in 
such plenitude. 

It was a sorry sermon on the text of the solidarity of the 
human family— Christian charity — the generous benevo- 
lence of civilization. Such sermons are preached more than 
once in the year to our Listening England, for the occasion 
unfortunately never fails. 

Paston, called to see this ghastly gift which the night had 
rendered him, recognized the face which had pressed 
against his window, and which he had repulsed in super- 
stitious fear. He looked at it long and curiously, liis heart 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 583 

failing him, his pale cheek paler than before, his con- 
science accusing him, his superstition reassuring him. But 
in between the black lines of horror ran a little thread of 
hght, a feeling of exultation, of gratitude, of relief, that 
his mother had not returned to disgrace him and Yetta. 
If this woman were indeed his mother — ^yet how could she 
be, when her soul had communed with his soul? when her 
spirit had spoken to him, almost manifested itself to him? 
— it were better that she had died, even thus miserably, 
than that she had harmed his child by her existence. He 
showed nothing of what he felt. Cold, pale, fish-eyed, he 
gave orders to have the body carried down to the town, 
where it awaited the coroner^s inquest, and* the verdict 
thereon. Then he turned back into his own house, feeling 
as if the earth were slipping from him. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

PAN DORANS BOX. 

Strange rumors I’an about the place — rumors which 
were none the less positive because they were destitute of 
proof. For what would become of the dramatic instinct of 
society if it waited for proofs before it established demon- 
stration? — or deprived itself of the pleasure to be found in 
slander and detraction? 

The floating twos and twos were caught and clamped into 
the various fours demanded by public opinion. It was first 
clearly made out that the nameless tramp was honest Jim 
Sherwood^s somewhat mysterious sister. That was made 
manifest at the inquest. And then — what? Conjectures 
were rife as to her motives in leaving the cottage in the 
midst of such a storm and at dead of such a night. And, 
leaving it at all, why had she gone to Mock-Beggar? 

The men sent to take her to the Hall spoke of her pas- 
sionate repugnance. Mary Jones and Sam Warner spoke 
of her queer outburst when told of Paston Carew, of whom 
she had evidently not heard before; and how she had cursed 
Jim Sherwood in his grave for some undesignated wrong done 
to her. Based on these fragmentary bricks, some con- 
structed a quite habitable theory, and made shrewd guesses 
which came terribly near the truth. But others repudiated 
the whole thing; said it was nothing but chance that had 


384 


PASTON CAREW; 


taken her to Mock-Beggar, and talked of the mole-hills 
made into mountains, according to the law of that charity 
which refuses to think evil. 

For all that, the theory increased the secret disfavor in 
which Paston was held— a disfavor born of his reticence 
and his meanness, and the repudiation did not pare down 
that increase by so much as a line. Those who denied 
what these others, asserted were like straws in a stream. 
They built no dam, nor in any way retarded the current to 
which every little rivulet gave added force. But no one 
told Paston face to face what was said; yet it was assumed 
that he must know. And truly, if he did not know, he 
divined, which came to much the same thing. 

The Clintons were the most disturbed by these rumors, 
and privately the most convinced of their truth; but for 
self-respect, they were the stanchest in public repudiation. 
They went back over all the details, and pieced together an 
ugly bit of mosaic, which they agi'eed to hold as secret as 
any other family skeleton is held when locked up in the 
underground cupboard. French remembered how the old 
woman^s eyes had haunted him with their false likeness to 
his own mother; my lady disbelieved afresh in that sleep 
of the inert mass she vainly shook and prodded, and. held 
that it was fear of detection which made her hide her face 
and feign insensibility. When Mary James, too full of the 
importance of her contribution to heed the scolding that 
would follow on her infraction of rules, told of her visit to 
the cottage, and of the old woman^s mad ways — with am- 
plifications — the thing grew in clearness and consistency; 
and between themselves neither French nor my lady had a 
doubt of the truth. But if it were so she was dead; and 
so far things had wrought for blessing. They were sorry 
for the ghastly manner of her death; they paid so much 
tribute to their common humanity; but any way it was 
w'ell that she should be out of the way of decent people, 
whom her life would have seriously embarrassed and in 
some sort degraded. Were she indeed the Mrs. Patty of 
old-time infamy, there was nothing else for her. It was 
best for herself, and what she owed to them. 

It was a painful position for every one, said Lady Jane, 
with bitter weeping. For themselves, of course, chief of 
all, to be reduced to mix themselves up in such a mass of 
mud; for that wretched man, too, who was to be pitied. 


MILLIOKAIEE AKD MISER. 


385 


supposing it to be true, and that he knew it to be true — as 
of course he did; this being the most distressing, therefore 
the most welcome alternative; and for that doomed girl, 
whether she knew it or not. How glad would she be, this 
Lady Jane of aristocratic lineage and well-fitting marriage, 
if they could wash their hands of the whole affair! But 
those mortgages, to be paid off by a fixed time, which daily 
drew nearer and nearer; and Lanfrey^s insane love, which 
seemed as if it would have its way no matter what the 
number of dead Creatures lying in the park at Mock- 
Beggar! 

Paston^s commentary on the situation was purely nega- 
tive. He went about more stony, glassy-eyed, impenetra- 
ble, unassailable than ever. He grew suddenly paler and 
thinner, certainly; but he paid even more attention to his 
toilet and general appearance than before, and thus offered 
a mute defiance to the world and its surmises. His man- 
ner to the Clintons had in it just the faintest dash of inso- 
lence — so faint as to be almost imperceptible, like a breath 
of heated air, no sooner come than gone, like an evanescent 
flavor eluding the senses when sought to be seized and ana- 
lyzed. He held himself somewhat as would a chess-player 
who foresees his adversary's sure defeat. He did not care 
to give himself the trouble to conceal the certainty of his 
triumph. That checkmate was too near to demand the 
caution wLich had been necessary in the opening gambit. 

Nevertheless,. care, impenetrability, mute defiance, slight 
dash of insolence notwithstanding, he had the look of a 
man who has received some mortal hurt, and is bleeding 
inwardly — dying silently, dying hard, but dying. 

His one sole source of joy at this moment was Yetta; and 
she gave him pain. He was fixed in his design to sacrifice 
part of his lifer’s hope for her happiness; but it was a sacri- 
fice that agonized him. Strong as his love was — stronger 
than his hate — it had not that complete mastery which 
chokes and kills. It only dominated, while that thing 
which it controlled was alive and ever torturing the hand 
that held it. He would not hear that fierce whisper which 
the world uttered and his own heart repeated. The being 
who came to his window and prayed for shelter was no 
demon, no Banshee, as his superstitious fears suggested. 
She was a woman of living flesh and blood. But she was 
not his mother- How could her spirit write to him by 


386 PAStON CAKEW, 

means of Planchette if she were not dead? How could he 
see her face forming ^ itself out of the darkness — hers and 
Aline^s— if their souls were not in that dim world which 
lies beygnd the grave? He would not believe it! Rather^ 
he believed Planchette when it wrote under his hand: “ A 
delusion sent by bad spirits to try your faith/^ 

One thing, however, troubled him in this determined be- 
lief — he no longer saw the faces nor felt the presence of the 
Beloved. And after that one message Planchette remained 
inactive; the crystal was swept clear and gave no visions; 
and he could read no intelligible prophecy in his tarots. 
Evidently the spirit of divination had deserted him, and he 
was left to the phantoms of the senses only. 

In the midst of all this Lanfrey came down, as had been 
agreed on; and early the next morning he rode over to 
Mock-Beggar to claim his promise from Yetta^s father and 
his reward from Yetta^s lips, bringing Jim Sherwood ^s let- 
ter in his pocket. He had not heard the luimors which 
were creeping about like snakes beneath the leaves, darting 
through the air like evening bats, scarce seen before they 
were gone. It was not a specially pleasant subject for 
Ethel to speak of to him, and she had not told him what, 
after all, were only reports and rumors neither verified nor 
substantiated. 

The neck of the winter was broken, and the day was 
bright and clear. It was one of. those days of which it is 
truly said they are the prophetic forerunners of spring. 
The sun was shining with appreciable power; the birds 
were twittering —active, restless, full of the future, and 
eloquent of life; over the hawthorn twigs had come a rosy 
flush like a blush beneath the bark; and there was a sense 
of growth and stirring in the hedge-rows and the meadows, 
like the movements of a sleeper just wakening to the day. 
It was a day to make men glad; but as Lanfrey came 
riding up to the hall-door Paston suddenly shivered, as if 
some cold air from off a snow mountain had blown over 
him. He felt as a criminal might feel when his crime was 
nearing detection — as any one of any kind or state whose 
time of freedom had come to an end, and whose term of 
punishment was at hand. So far had he educated that 
inner sense which exists in us all beneath the travesties of 
fraud and exaggeration, and which he had overlaid by the 
very vehemence of his desire — liis own mind creating that 


MILLIOKAIEE AND MISER. 


387 


thing he wished should be. Yet that Inner Sense was 
there; and it told him that Lanfrey brought him sorrow. 

For a few moments all earthly things were forgotten by 
the lovers in the ecstasy of that first authorized meeting as 
affianced bride and bridegroom. Strained eyes looked into 
the beloved face to see what changes might have been 
wrought in these past eons of absence. Each found the 
other more beautiful than before; and each read in the 
other the translation of that dumb yearning and patient 
sorrow which had made life a martyrdom, where the pyre 
had been built of sandal-wood, and the crown was always 
above the cross. And each said, “ At last!^' with the feel- 
ing of those who have tarried long and toiled hard, and 
borne the heavy burden of the day, to come at the end to 
rest and reward. 

The most trivial words were precious as jewels, fragrant 
as spice-laden airs. His voice was like music, hers was a 
caress. Time stood still, and all life was concentrated in 
these golden moments; and then, after the first full 
draught of this God^s wine had been taken, Lanfrey re- 
membered Jim Sherwood ^s letter, and gave it to Paston, 
with excuses for his negligence. 

Paston took the letter to the window and read it. FTot a 
muscle quivered; only the cold drops stood on his forehead 
thick as rain, and there was a slight movement of the hair, 
as on that night when the tapping at the window had made 
him imagine it was Aline^s pure soul re-embodied come to 
visit him, and a wild, white, blood-streaked face had been 
pressed against the window, beseeching him for shelter and 
calling itself his mother, It was, then, true. This letter 
confirmed it. That thing had been his mother; and he 
had sent her back into the blackness of the night, to die at 
his own door like a dog. He had been a matricide among 
other things. And Planchette had lied. And now where 
was his anchor? 

Wrapped in themselves, the lovers saw nothing. Paston 
was silent, and therefore overlooked, whiJe they sat together 
on the sofa, Lanfrey holding Yetta^’s hand, and Yetta every 
now and then returning his fervent pressure with that deli- 
cate touch of maidenly love, that conscious sentiment and 
suggestion of yielding, which is more precious to the heart 
of a man who loves than the crown of the world. 

‘‘ It has been almost worth while to go through so much 


388 PASTON CAREW, 

to have such a reward as this/^ said Lanfrey. ‘‘But, oh, 
my darling, I can see that you have suffered; and so have 
I. Your beautiful hands are thinner than they used to be, 
and your sweet face is paler/^ 

“ Jt has been a painful time, said Yetta, gently. 

“ But my people have been good to you of late?'’ 

“Yes," she answered; not adding that they had been 
good for a purpose, and that only when too far committed 
to draw back had they gone on in the w^ay they had begun. 

“ My mother likes you so much!" said Lanfrey, lover- 
like, transforming Lady Jane’s restricted allowance of cer- 
tain merits into warm and peculiar favor. 

“ I am glad of that,” she answered, not quite believing, 
but not caririg to express her doubts, and perfectly con- 
scious of the difference in Lady Jane’s manner between 
now and then; how that, now it was mere toleration, while 
then, when Maurice was playing his cards, it was active 
and warm adoption. 

“ And my father is enthusiastic,” continued Lanfrey. 

“ He has always been so kind!" she said to this, quite 
heartily. “ And Ethel has always been like my own dear, 
dear sister.” 

“And the others?" 

“ I do not know them quite so well," was her answer. 

Lanf rev’s color came a little more rudely than was usual 
with him. He divined the sweet reticence of her reply, 
and he did not care to inquire more deeply. He knew his 
sisters, and understood how, without active hostility, they 
could make themselves mutely detestable. Neither did he 
care to ask about Maurice. He was keenly alive to the 
dangers besetting that special rock of former possible ship- 
wreck; and he thought it better not to ask what it might 
pain her to repeat and him to hear. He knew Maurice as 
he knew his sisters, and was therefore sure that he would 
not scruple to cut out brother or iviandif fiance or husband, 
if the desire took him. After his father’s frank exposition 
to him of how the matter stood, and why he had at last 
taken off the interdict against him, and his mother’s futile 
tears and bitter reproaches over the inevitable destitution 
of the elder son — he, a Clinton himself, could well under- 
stand how much rather they would have preferred that 
Maurice should have saved the estate by marrying Yetta 
for her money, than that he should be happy by marrying 


MILLIOKAIRE AND MISER. 


a89 


her for love. Wherefore the handsome, headstrong young- 
officer was left alone, and the lovers turned, their talk into 
other channels. 

Then Paston, putting that fatal letter into his pocket, 
came back to them as the inevitable kill-joy of the hour. 
He was ghastly pale, livid and deathly, but his manner was 
as calm and unmoved as ever, as intentionally unsympa- 
thetic, as covertly cynical. Yetta, not so much absorbed 
in her lover as to be unmindful of her father, left Lanfrey 
and wen t over to Paston. 

“ Are you not well, dear?’^ she asked, slipping her hand 
into his. 

‘‘^Yes,^^he answered, in a constrained voice. ‘‘ I am 
well. Why do you ask?^^ 

“ You look so pale!^' said Yetta. “ Come to the fire. 
Your hands are like fire themselves; but you look so cold 
and white!” 

That sparse gas fire was not a very exhilarating nor yet a 
very efficient -one; but Paston liked the care. He" was 
jealous of Lanfrey, and glad that his daughter should show 
her lov§ for him. He felt it as a kind of triumph, and it 
soothed him. Yetta was ever the David to his soul, and 
her voice was the music which exercised his evil spirit. 
Pandora ^s box was opened for him, and all the pains and 
griefs his imagination had ever figured were abroad. But 
his child wa^ the Hope which yet remained. She was the 
only beautiful bit of his life, and she was to leave him. 

The sun shone in the pure blue sky; the flitting restless birds 
filled the air with movement, color, voices; the first flush 
was on the twigs; the earliest leaves had broken from their 
buds; it was the poem of the great idyl of love and joy, of 
spring-time mirth and summer gladness; it was the first 
strophe of the divine chorus, where every one was attuned 
to harmony, and where only he was miserable. He had 
fallen fathoms deep in his own esteem. Like Icarus, he 
had sought to soar in the empyrean, and he had drowned 
himself in the salt sea of sorrow: like Phaethon, he had 
sought to guide the flaming chariot of divine knowledge, 
and he had consumed the living things of time. He had 
been cheated by his own imagination, or made the sport of 
evil influences. And, either way. Aline was as much a 
myth as his mother, and his assurance was yet to seek. 
Skeptical and superstitious — superstitious because skeptical 


390 


PASTON CAKEW, 


— the supports on which he had leaned had failed him, 
and he-knew not where to turn for comfort. 


CHAPTEE LIIL 

THE GOLDEN BOWL. 

These was running to and fro in the streets of Beaton 
Brows, and once again excited crowds gathered in the 
market-place, where women •’s flushed cheeks, shrill voices 
sharpened by tears, and passionate reproaches matched the 
menu’s pale faces, deep oaths, and flercer threats. That 
run on the bank, though it had been stopped for the mo- 
ment, had left its mark on the receipts and revenues, and 
the underground flow, that had been going on for some 
years now, had poured toward the outfall with rather more 
violence than before. 

By this time not a security that had ever been deposited 
in the bank for safety was there, and the japanned tin 
boxes, ostentatiously painted and scrupulously dusted, were 
as fallacious witnesses as the well -bound books masking a 
library door, or the wooden sugar-loaves on a grocer^s 
shelves. All the men — still more all the women — who had 
trusted the handsome, smiling, pleasure-loving banker had 
bitter cause to lament their misplaced confidence, with 
leisure now lo bewail their vanished property,* transferred 
by clever financial conjuring from their hands to his. The 
ruin of hundreds of small depositors strewed his path as 
dead insects strew the ground after the unseen blight or 
the open storm. Children left penniless, the old made 
destitute, the industrious disabled, the hope of the ambi- 
tious destroyed— these were the cruel commentaries on the 
secret war against his fellow-men which the popular banker 
of Beaton Brows had been carrying on with smiles on his 
lips and death in his hand — this was the price paid for his 
hunters, his wine, his pictures, his generosities to the pretty 
women who trusted him. Luxury, debt, defalcation, were 
the triple strands of the rope by which Hugh Arrol had 
throttled both his conscience and humanity. 

But now the game was up; the last stakes had been 
raked in; the time for his own payment had come round, 
and he could not redeem his forfeits. So, taking a care- 
less, good-humored farewell of his unconscious wife — ^for a 


MILLIOKAIKE AND IHISER. 391 

short run up to London on business^, he said, to be home in 
four or five days at the longest— the banker left Beaton 
Brows forever, and under a feigned' name passed into the 
dream-land he had foreseen — to the sunny shores of Spain, 
where he was at least safe from the prosaic presence of 
the police. 

In a few days the bubble burst, and the truth was made 
known. Then came the crash of a general despair, where- 
in sympathy was dead, for no one had a surplus to spare 
from his own self-pity. The Daymans were absolutely 
ruined, and the fine fortune to be inherited by the pretty 
boy went out like a puff of smoke, as the hopes of the 
children by the former marriage had gone out before. The 
Gaysworthys were “ winged — not slain outright like the 
Daymans, but crippled so far as to be afterward obliged to 
let their house on a three years’ agreement, and take refuge 
on the Continent, where we shall some day meet them 
again. But the Ellacombes and the Harcourts were safe. 
Neither Grant nor the rector had sincerely trusted the 
handsome scoundrel; and though neither had foreseen a 
tithe of his villany, each had felt him to be shaky, and so 
had refrained from carting his own bricks and mortar to 
the quicksand. 

It was the little people, however, who suffered the most. 
Small farmers, small shop-keepers, and those of a larger 
way of business, too, lost their accumulated savings of 
years, and their bankrupty broke up the benches of others. 
As Mr. Henry Askew sat in the consul’s office at Malaga, 
and read the list of bankruptcies at Beaton Brows, in Fell- 
shire, he felt really sorry for them all, and said, ‘‘ Poor 
devils!” quite humanely, below his breath. He took care 
not to say it aloud. For all his smooth-shaven face, luxu- 
riant locks of snow-white hair, blue spectacles, and change 
of name, it was as well not to show feeling for nor cog- 
nizance of the district whence the fraudulent bankrupt 
Hugh Arrol had fled. And as he had saved enough out of 
his neighbors’ pockets to live in comfort in the sunshine 
for many years yet to come, he forbore to worry himself 
about the irremediable, but sipped his wine with as much 
gusto as when he had made Mr. Harcourt satirical, Grant 
Ellacombe doubtful, and old Humphrey Clinton jealous by 
the superiority of his brands and the date of his vintages 
so freely offered at Knocker House. 


m 


PASTOK CAREW, 


Poor round-faced Elsie was as much to be pitied as the 
rest. She was a foolish little woman, granted; but folly is 
not vice, and for all her aesthetic flirtation with her lank- 
limbed Petrarch, she had been an honest wife, and silly 
rather than faulty for the rest. Eow her case was pitiable 
enough, and her end of the stick was weighted with lead. 
Alone and undefended — sheltered only by Mrs. Ellacombe, 
who took her to the Knoll as if she had been a deserted 
child — she had to bear the brunt . of the disclosures that 
fell on her like so much fire from heaven. Her nature was 
not made to hold large passions, but so much shame and 
despair as could fill a shallow little soul filled hers, and 
made life a very uncomfortable and melancholy thing. She 
had really loved that debonair Philistine of hers. He had 
been a caressing, generous, tolerant, and good-tempered 
husband, had yielded with a good grace to her follies, had 
flattered her in the prettiest way imaginable, and had 
never wearied of his work; and she had had no more doubt 
of him than she had of the root beneath the flower, the 
bird behind the song. And now she had to realize that 
her trust had been in vain, and that she bore the name of 
a man who, if law had its rights and justice were done to 
him, would be in the cells picking oakum, after having 
passed through the dock of the Old Bailey. 

There was nothing for her but to go back to her father-’s 
house, where she was neither wife nor daughter — without 
rights, without claims, kept on charity, and made to feel 
the weight of the dole — and where she was but impatiently 
regarded by her sisters, who dreaded her presence among 
them as a hinderance, not a help to their own settlement. 
For she was by far the prettiest of them all, and miles 
away the silliest; and either point gave disastrous standards 
of comparison. But family solidarity is a duty, come what 
may, and though the crust given may be pared away at the 
edges, and the butter thereon but sparsely spread, still it 
has to be given at all costs, and accepted qiiand meme, 
steeped in bitter tears as it may be. 

For a further nail in the coffin of her dead happiness, 
her father and mother were Philistines of the most pro- 
nounced type, and her sisters ridiculed her bilious colors 
and queer-cut garments, while the dogs of disesteem yelped 
at her heels all through. 

Nor was it a very sweet-smelling posy in her present 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


393 


thorny path to know that her faithless knight had engaged 
himself to Sophia Clinton. No one but himself and mouse- 
like Ethel knew that he had first tempted Providence and 
sought his fate through her. When she said him nay, as 
gently and as inexorably as Yetta Cai^ew had said it before, 
he transferred himself to Sophia. And Sophia was too 
anxious to be her own mistress and the ruler of a house 
and husband to be either cruel or careful. For himself, 
he was in the mental state of a man who is determined to 
marry, when, if one woman refuses him, he tries another, 
and scarcely knows the difference. He wanted to break 
the last lingering thread of the silken tie which had bound 
him to Elsie ArroFs short, broad, fieshy feet. He was still 
in love, in his red-eyed, feeble way, with Yetta. As she 
had repulsed him, it was therefore of very little conse- 
quence to him who took the head of the table at Five Oaks 
with himself as the appendage. It was not a very sublime 
attitude of mind, but it was characteristic, and Lady Jane 
and her daughter profited. 

But greatest of all the causes for talk, which made Bea- 
ton Brows as noisy as a murmurous beehive before swarm- 
ing, was the news that went like a lightning flash from end 
to end of the county that the Brent Fell mine had at last 
come upon lead — pure, rich, and in quantities— and that 
the fine old Family was now saved. It had crept about 
the place, by those secret methods of which no one knows 
the course nor' the source, that Paston Carew held all the 
bonds, and intended to sell up the owners when the time of 
foreclosure should have arrived. Comments of no friendly 
kind backed these rumors. Beaton Brows, faithful to old 
traditions, held it for sin that one who was even below the 
natural status of a stranger should desire the repayment of 
his money if at the loss of an aristocratic autochthone. This 
report of evil intentions coming on that which made the 
dead beggar bis mother — the Patty of history and the 
Creature of infamous repute — added fuel to the fire of 
P'lblic indignation burning against the miser. And though 
hitherto that fire had been smoldering rather than flaming, 
after the finding of the lead it threatened to break out in 
unmivstakable fashion enough, and to burn up the social 
position and moral character of Paston Carew like chaff in 
a furnace. His personal miserliness, his hardness as a 
guardian, his severity as a magistrate, his declared birth 


394 


PASTON CAREW, 


and his undeclared opinions; all contributed to his unpopu- 
larity; and now his known intention to have dispossessed 
the Clintons and taken the Hall for himself — when these 
last should have been ruined — gave the coup de grace to the 
lingering remains. 

All said they had made up their minds to cut the million- 
aire when he should have ousted the Clintons. No one 
confessed to the smallest wavering of fidelity to the Ancient 
House, to the smallest feeling of friendship for Paston — no 
one, save the Ellacombes and the Gaysworthys; and these 
demurred to that problematic ostracism — the one for the 
sense of fairness, the other for the unexhausted chance of 
pickings. For poor dear Babs and Darling, being in such 
limp case for their own parts, thought it well to have a 
hand in their neighbor's bread pans when they could — their 
own oven being so cold — and Planchette might yet prove 
as good a friend at need as ever was stout Sir William of 
Deloraine. It was easy, too, for the world to flourish its 
flag now. Wise after the event; brave when the battle is 
over; loyal when loyalty brings no disgrace, but, contrari- 
wise, increase of honor — do we not all know the way of the 
world? And Beaton Brows went that way with the rest. 

At Clinton the success of the mine was, in good truth, 
the release of sorrowing souls from Hades and their safe 
translation into Elysium. It took off the horrible night- 
mare by which the Family had been so long oppressed, and 
once more enabled them to breathe freely. Those fatal 
bonds redeemed; Maurice the sure inheritor; Sophia en- 
gaged to Fitz-George Standish,- and Fitz-George Standish 
not demanding anything like an appreciable dower — were 
they not of those who might sing lo Paeans without the 
danger of a false note. among the chords? But one rb^ 
mained to mar the harmony of the rest, and Lanfrey^s en- 
gagement to Yetta was that false note. 

If we could prevail on him to abandon this insane 
affair said my Lady Jane, with the sublime self-forget- 
fulness of pride when it has lowered its horn as it skirted 
by ruin, and now raises it again as it touches success. “ It 
is so shocking to think of one of Us married to that dread- 
ful maiPs daughter, after all that has happened, too!’ ■ 

“ I do not see how we can prevent it, Jane,’^ said French 
with that air of doubt which masks resolution and keeps 
courtesy intact. His release from ruin freed him for the 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


395 


moment from his accustomed fetters by the increase of 
self-assertion; Yetta had a very warm place in his heart; 
and he was above all things an honorable gentleman — out- 
side making debts he could not pay. “We have encour- 
aged it, you see, when we wanted it,^^ he continued; “ and 
Laii^s heart is set on the girl, and she is herself as good as 
gold, and a girl any man might be proud of. So I do not 
see how we can set our faces against it now. 

“ When we sanctioned it that dreadful tragedy had not 
taken place, returned Lady Jane. “ We had every reason 
to believe that wretched person was dead and almost for- 
gotten. Now when the whole thing has been brought to 
light again, and made into a nine-days^ wonder, it alters 
all our relations. We have quite good cause, French, to 
discountenance the engagement, and compel Lanfrey to 
break it off.^^ 

“ To what good if we do?^^ said French. “ Lanfrey is 
as determined to marry the girl as — what shall I say? — as 
I was determined to marry you, my dear. To forbid him 
would be to add to the scandals, already quite thick enough, 
that of a Clinton’s runaway match with old 0 are w’s daugh- 
ter. We had better take it, Jane, with a good grace. 
Bitter pills that have to be swallowed do not go down any 
the easier because of wry faces. ” 

“ I can not!” said Lady Jane — “ I can not receive that 
Creature’s half-illegitimate granddaughter as my son’s 
wife. ' C^estpliis fort qiie moi, French.” 

“Needs must, old dear,” he answered, soothingly. 
“ Besides, Jane — remember — it goes a little with our honor 
don’t you see? We encouraged the marriage when we 
were in the old fellow’s power and wanted to conciliate 
him,' and all that — when in fact we wanted to save the 
estate for at least one of our sons. Do you think; it would 
be quite fair — quite like gentlefolks, pur sang — if we threw 
it up now when we are out of the wood and don’t need 
help? What was done in the green we must stand by in 
the dry. We have more to think of, you see, than that 
kind of public repute which is touched by an outside 
smirch. We have our honor to take care of, and honor 
keeps us faithful to our word.” 

‘^And you were so strong against it in the beginning! 
How inconsistent men are!” said Lady Jane, angrily. 

“ And having given way for certain reasons stronger 


396 PASTOH CAEEW, 

than my objections, I will stand to my word,^^ returned 
Trench, with ominous gravity. 

“ You are quixotic, French/^ said Lady Jane, petulant- 
ly. “ You should have lived a thousand years ago.'’^ 

“ So Maurice says,^-’ he answered, with a laugh. ‘‘ But 
I am content to live now, and set as good an example to 
others as I can.^^ 

“ I question if it is a good example. I hold it a very 
bad one in these odious democratic times, was his wife^s 
rejoinder — wornan-like, bent on having the* last word. 

Meanwhile the most miserable man between earth and 
sky was this same Paston Carew, the successful million- 
aire. Successful as a money-grubber, yes; but in naught 
else. Outside his gold everything had failed him, and he 
stood where men stand when they have realized the false- 
hood of hope and the futility of life. All that he had 
worked for had eluded him; and his great desire, so close 
on realization, was now like a painted tomb wherein a man 
lays his lifers love. He had been mocked and cheated on 
all sides. The sweet influences which had been about him 
— the spirits of the Beloved who had comforted and en- 
couraged him — were figments of his own brain, and Plan- 
chette had lied in accordance with his own desires. The 
destruction of the Clintons was no longer possible, and the 
cup had been dashed from his lips just as he had thought 
to drink. Yetta’s deepest love had gone from him to an- 
other, and what remained as his had received a shock that 
had changed its character forever. Could he forget that 
look of horror in her eyes when she had swooned at his 
feet on recognizing his true self.^ He had given his word, 
and, truth to say, his love for her was too strong to make 
him able to break it, but all the same her marriage was 
another wound to his bleeding pride, another thorn in the 
awful crown pressed on his brow by fate. Had it been 
Maurice, now that things had shifted as they had, he would 
not have felt so bitterly. At least she would have been 
mistress of Clinton; and her marriage would have redeemed 
his mother’s shame. But Lanfrey was emphatically no- 
where in the scale of compensations. The younger son — it 
was he who would receive all, and give back nothing but 
an empty name stripped of all intrinsic value. His — Pas- 
teups — money would go to build up the fortunes of one of 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 397 

those he had hoped to destroy, and his daughter's happi- 
ness would be his sole reward. ^ 

. Would she be happy? For the moment, yes— for tlie 
short period of early fascination before the inevitable time 
of satiety and disillusionment — and then? — the tinsel would 
be tarnished, as all tinsel does tarnish. And then he 
thought of Aline, and for the first time wondered if ever 
that day of disenchantment would have come to him, had 
she lived till youth was gone and love had matured to 
fuller ripeness — or decay. In the utter hopelessness and 
despair of the 'moment he blasphemed his highest good, 
and groaned as he thought, “ Even her love would have 
failed me!^^ 

He saw no light where he stood, and round the whole 
horizon of his future ran the black Eiver of Sorrows. His 
life was like a shattered crystal goblet which could neither 
be mended nor reconstructed. He had struggled with fate, 
and he had been overthrown. He had tried to command 
circumstances, and he had been overtaken and over- 
whelmed. The tower he had built up for his soul with so 
much care and pains, so much diligence and foresight, had 
been washed away in the flood, and he was left like one 
naked to laughter when the leaves have fallen and the cold 
winds have come. There was no good in resisting. He 
had nothing left now for which to fight. The utmost that 
remained to him was the manner that baffled, concealed, 
protected, and that had become a second nature. 

When French came to him the day after the London 
lawyer had paid into his bank the checks which redeemed 
the bonds, Paston received his old enemy in precisely the 
same way as before. Glassy-eyed, impenetrable, unde- 
cipherable, his face was a mask, his manner a cere-cloth, 
through which showed neither enmity nor kindness, neither 
annoyance nor exultation. The bonds were redeemed — 
yes, certainly; and now the estate was unencumbered, and 
he, Paston, had no more to say. It must be a relief to Mr. 
Clinton to have realized from the mine, which would prob- 
ably yield a. fabulous fortune before exhausted. Mining 
property w^as indeed, as he said, eminently uncertain; and 
from d.'V to day no one knew whether the pick W'ould strike 
success or ruin 

He bore what French knew to be his bitter disappoint- 
ment with such heroic self-restraint that the generous- 


m 


PASTOK CAREW. 


hearted country gentleman felt for him a respect mingled 
with pity, which went near to reach over all the shortcom- 
ings of the past. But he expected a difference of form, a 
change of front, w^hen it should come to the question of 
settlements on Lanfrey^s marriage. He knew, as every one 
in Beaton Brows knew now, the half-insane avarice 
which was the central canker of Paston^s nature, and he 
was prepared for a fight, on the issue of which the mar- 
riage should hang. So much he had promised Lady Jane. 
If he could not make superb terms, Lanfrey should not take 
the girl; if he could, the boy might go further and fare 
worse; and his fortune would be secure and their honor 
redeemed. 

When they came to the point, however, Paston might 
have been a wax figure stuffed full of gold, for all the re- 
sistance he made. ’ At the smallest pressure he yielded, and 
the harder he was pressed the more he yielded. French 
was frankly astounded, and his manner betrayed his feel- 
ing. He explained it to himself by this base-born fellow^’s 
natural ambition to see his daughter married into the oldest 
family in Fellshire. He read by the light of preconceived 
ideas— as we all do — and saw nothing of the sorrowful 
truth, the man^s moral collapse on the shattering of his 
lifer’s great hope. What was substantially death he took as 
IdcheU, and only the broad magnanimity of his own nature 
prevented his despising as heartily as he had just now re- 
spected. 

He refrained, too, from giving an unfriendly color to 
things when he went home and told Lady Jane how he had 
sped. He merely said that he had found Mr. Carew dis- 
posed to be quite fair and even generous, and that Lanfrey 
would do well, which was but scant comfort to my Lady. 
Now that the family Pactolus was in spate they could have ' 
afforded to keep their younger son like a gentleman, prior 
to his marrying a woman of birth and fortune combined — 
on his way to the Woolsack. And PastoiPs generosity, 
which had clinched the . marriage, was not what it would 
have been a few weeks ago, had he dowered Yetta for the 
benefit of Maurice and the salvation of the estate. She 
had, however, to take things as they came, and to make 
the best of the irremediable. But Lanfrey and Yetta at 
Mock-Beggar would be thorns— and she did not disguise 
that fact and call them roses. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


399 - 


" It is well/^ said Paston, coldly, when Lanfrey thanked 
him with a young inan^s effusiveness of gratitude for the 
generous provision he had promised to make. 

His gratitude was not for himself. He could well have 
been one of the noble little band of plain livers and high 
thinkers who keep morality alive and the world on the up- 
ward way. But, man-like, he rejoiced that Yetta would 
have all that with which love would dower the beloved. 
And he was grateful to her father for her, not for himself, 
with whom the flesh-pots did not count. 

‘‘You have been nobly generous,^’ he said, offering his 
hand. 

Paston laid his in the broad frank palm, as if it had been 
a dead thing within which a fire was burning. 

‘ " child,'’^ he answered, coldly. How livid 





She has chosen her own path, and 


little as I like the connection — you know that,^-’ he added, 
sharply, lifting up his eyes with^ a sudden fierce flash, 
strangely at variance with his studiously constrained man- 
ner — “ I am none the more released from my obligations. 
Because she is willful and disobedient she must not be left 
to starve. 

“ No! no! dear father,^ ^ said Yetta, who came in at this 
moment, and caught the last words; “ not willful, not dis- 
obedient — only faithful to my word and loyal to my love.^^ 

“It is the same sentiment differently phrased,’^ he an- 
swered; “ the same object at different angles. Your method 
does not vitiate mine. ^ ^ 

“ It breaks my heart to think that you are displeased 
with me,^^ said Yetta, going closer To her father and put- 
ting her arms round him. 

“ A heaH-break which I fancy will not be long in mend- 
ing,’"’ he returned, cynically. “ A lover dispossesses a 
father as a cuckoo diy)ossesses the hedge-sparrow. And 
the cuckoo sings, but the hedge-sparrow dies. ” 

“ Father, dearest father, have some little mercy on me!” 
cried Yetta, bursting into tears. “You loved my mother, 
and she went with you from her own people. But was she 
unfaithful to them? Can not you believe that I too may 
love Lanfrey as she loved you, and yet be faithful and true 
to you as well?” 

Her arms were still about him, holding him closely 
clasped; her sweet b'"7 .-^es, at once bright and soft with 


400 


PASTON CAREW, 


tears, looked with loving pleading into his; her parted lips, 
dry and slightly swollen, were as pathetic as the Genci's; 
and Paston loved her as he loved no one else alive— and 
only Aline dead. 

“ Dry your eyes,’^ he said, gently, kissing her forehead. 

You know I can not bear your tears, Yetta. They make 
a woman of me, and shame me for my weakness. Kiss 
me, child, he then said, straining her to him. ‘‘ Kiss me 
and let me see you smile. If I have been wayward and 
jealous, forgive me. You can afford to be generous, I 
have no one but you, and you have left me. But I am not 
envious. It is, and it must be. Be to her as fond and true 
as I was to her mother,’’ he continued, turning to Lanfrey, 
“•and my blessing will rest on you and yours for all your 
life. Love her, protect, her, keep her happiness without a 
flaw, as you have, to answer to God. And as you are to 
her, may God be to you. My blessing or my curse lies in 
these words. My child! my Yetta! my one sole joy and 
love! you will be happy, and you shall never have cause to 
reproach your father. ” 

Again he held her to his heart with that convulsive press- 
ure which almost threatened to crush what it clasped. 
Then once more kissing her face — this time her lips — and 
g'iving his hand to Lanfrey, he left the room; and they 
heard him cross the hall and lock the study door, as he 
was wont to do against intruders. 

Hours passed, and Yetta’s vague uneasiness, which had 
bleached the roses and chilled her joy, grew with the 
lengthening of the time into uncontrollable terrors. 

“ I must see my father,” she said at last, breaking away 
from her lover, and standing pale and ti’embling, her face 
turned to the door. 

“ Why do you tremble so, my darling?” asked Lanfrey 
tenderly. “ What do you fear?” 

“Ido not know; but I do fear,” she answered. “He 
was so pale and sad and unlike himself; and I — have I 
been selfish and undutiful?” 

“ Answer that now,” he said, taking her in his arms. 

But she did not respond. She only said: “Come with 
me, Lanfrey. Let us go to my father.” 

“ Yes, let us go,” he replied; and hand in hand they 
crossed the hall, and stood by the door of the study, 
knocking. 


MILLIONAIRE AND MISER. 


401 


There was no response. "When the silver cord is loosed 
and the golden bowl is broken, when the pitcher is broken 
at the fountain and the wheel is broken at the cistern, who 
should respond? Leaning back in his chair, his head sunk 
forward on his breast, his glazed eyes unclosed and turned, 
his lean hands clinched, his narrow lips unclosed; on the 
table splintered lengths and fragments of wood, which, 
pieced together, made a wheeled and heart-shaped machine, 
a mass of broken crystal, a pack of torn and half-burned 
cards; on the writing-case a sheet of paper with one word 
only scrawled all across the page, one word only, “ Fool!” 
— ^from all this what response could be made? Within the 
room was the leaden silence of death; but through the 
hail-door, flung open wide, came the spring-time songs of 
birds, and the mocking voice of the cuckoo calling to its 
mate from the cedar-tree on the lawn. 


THE END. 


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239 Signa. By ‘’Onida ” 20 

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241 The Baby's Grandmother. By 

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253 The Amazon By Carl Vosmaer 10 

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263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 


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264 Pi6douche, A French Detective. 

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265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

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268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, 3'he 

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278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

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281 The Squ.ire’s Legacy. By DIai-y 

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280 John Bull's Neighbor in Her 
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290 Nora’s Love 'Test. By Mary Cecil 

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293 The Shadow of a Sin. B.y the 

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295 A Woman’s War. B.y the author 

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296 A Rose in 'Thorns. By the au- 

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297 Her Marriage Vow ; <tr, Hilary's 

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300 A Gilded Sin. and A Bridge of 

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301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conwa 3 -. 10 

302 The Blatchfoid Bequest. By 

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303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

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304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author 

cf “ Dora 'Thoi ne ” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lad 3 ’^ Gwen- 

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306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a 

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307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other 

Love. By the author of “ Dora 
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308 Beyond Pardon.. 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Feni- 

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310 Thei'rairie. a. r'eniraore Cooper 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. By' 

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312 A Week in Killarney; or. Her 

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313 The Lover's Creed. By Mrs. 

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314 Peril.- By Jessie Folliergill 20 

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322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

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365 George Christy; or. The Fort- 

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367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 26 

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372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- 

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373 Wing-and-Wing. J. Fenimore 

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375 A Ride to Khiva. Bv Capt. Fred 

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383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 

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460 Under a Shadow. By Charlotte 

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470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 

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471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 

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472 The Wise Women of Inverness. 

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473 A Lost Son. Bj’' Mary Linskill. 10 

474 Serapis. BynGeorge Ebers 20 

475 The Prima Donna’s Husband. 

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476 Between 'i’wo Sins. By Char- 

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477 Affinities. A Romance of To- 

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478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter 

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470 Louisa. Katharines. Macqnoid 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

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483 Betwixt My Love aind Me. By 

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484 Although He Was a Lo’'d, and 

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485 Tinted Vapours. By J. Maclaren 


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20 I'he Fastest Boy in New York 10c 

21 Black Raven, the Georgia Detective 10c 

22 Night-Hawk, the Mounted Detective 10c 

23 The Gypsy Detective . ; 10c 

24 The Mysteries and Miseries of New York 10c 

25 Old Terrible 10c 

26 The Smugglers of New York Bay 10c 

27 Manfred, the Magic Trick Detective..., .... 10c 

28 Mura, the Western Lady Detective 10c 

29 Monsieur Armand ; or, The French Detective in New 

York 10c 

30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female Detective. First half 10c 

30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female Detective. Second half 10c 

31 Haniud, the Detective 10c 

32 The Giant Detective in France. First half 10c 

32 The Giant Detective in France. Second half 10c 

33 The American Detective in Russia., 10c 

34 The Dutch Detective 10c 


The Publisher will send any of the above works by mail, 
postage prepaid, on receipt of the price, 10 cents each. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

17 to 27 Vandewater St. aud 45 to 53 Rose Pt., New Yor\ 


P, O. Box 3751. 


MUKRO^S PUBLICATIO^TS. 


LADY BRANKSMERE. 

By ‘^THE duchess.” 

PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 
Complete in Seaside Library (Pocket Edition), No. 733. 


PRICK 30 CKI^ rs 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage prepaid, on 
receipt of the price, 30 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION), NO. 746, 

FOR ANOTHER’S SIN; 

OR, 

A STRUGGLE FOR LOVE. 

By CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME, 

Author of “ Dora Thorne." 

PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 


PRICK 30 CBUTS. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage prepaid, on 
receipt of the price, 20 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE ]\IUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New' York. 


HUNTERS’ TARNS. 


A COLLECTION OF 

Wild and Amusing Adventures; 

COMPRISING 

THRILLING J3ATTLES WFITI INDIANS, TER- 
RIFIC ENCOUNTERS WITH SERPENTS 
AND ALLIGATORS, LONG SWIMS, 
RACES FOR LIFE, WONDERFUL 
FISH AND GHOST STORIES, 

Etc., Etc., Etc., 

As Related by Hunters to their Compan^ 
ions Around the Camp-fire. 


This book is beyond question the best publication of its class that 
has yet appeared, it is a neat volume of one hundred pages, closely 
printed matter, all original, and embraces many side-splitting jokes anc' 
yarns of the ever-ready- and sharp-witted trapper and hunter. 


PRICE 95 CEIVT'ti. 


For sale by all Newsdealers, or sent to any address on receipt of the price 
'J5 cents, postage prepaid, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

Munro’s Publishing House, 


e. O. Box 8761. 


17 to 27 Vaudewater Street, K 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATldlSra 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

ORDINARY EDITION. 


OEORGE MVNRO, Munro’s Fublishinc Honso, 

P, O. Box 8781. 17 to 07 Vandewater Street, N. T. 


The following: works cc ntained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition, 
ftre for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage frees, 
on receipt of the price, by the publisher. Parties ordering by mail will please 
• rder by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

SiO Her Dearest Foe 20 

86 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

870 Ralph Wilton’s Weird...... 10 

400 Which Shall it Be?. 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow., 10 

1231 The Freres. 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1891 Look Before You Leap 20 

A502 The Australian Aunt........ 10 

^695 The Admiral’s Ward 20 - 

’''j;21 The Executor 20 

.*? 4 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid, 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule ............. 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth. , 10 

47 In Silk Attire. ... ..o 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 1(1 
Kilmenv . . .....n. ~ . .. 


THE SEASWE LTBRARY. — Or^^rnary Editixm. 


63 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. . . • - IP 

79 Madcap Violet (s^nall type) 18 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance. 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Siwirise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius. 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Pour MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande. 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRA^DDON’S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Lovels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

X 215 Birds of Prey 26 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret. 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange lO 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 26 

459 The Doctor’s Wife ‘ 26 

i69 Rupert Godwin. - - c % , ..... 26 


THE SEASIDE LIBEARY, — Ordina/ry Edition. 


481 Vixen 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

619 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John Marchm^^nt’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 2Q 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery 26 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part I 26 

734 Diavola,; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie , 20 

942 Asphodel '. 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag - 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) ^ 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

611 The Professor - 16 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordina/ry Edition. 

' 

329 Wuthering Heights ; . . . . 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell*Hall 20 

j098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1138 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

82 The Queen of Hearts * 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel lo 

483 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


551 The YeUow Mask .... . 

583 Fallen Leaves. , . 

654 Poor Miss Finch ; 

675 The Moonstone 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 

721 Basil 

745 The Magic Spectacles • 

905 Duel in Herne Wood - 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? :.. 

971 The Frozen Deep ; 

990 Tlie Black Robe 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 

1856 “I Say No” 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S- WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 

224 The Deerslayer 

226 The Pathfinder 

2^9 Tlie Pioneers 

231 The Prairie. .... 

233 The Pilot 

585 The Water-Witch. 

590 The Two Admirals - 

615 The Red Rover 

761 Wing-and-Wing 

940 The Spy. 

1066- Tlie Wyandotte 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 

1569 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 

1605 The Monikins 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 

i691 The Crater, or. Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific. . . 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS, 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop ....... 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 

t02 Hard Times. ................. . - 


10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

10 

10 

10 

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10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

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20 

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20 

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2G 

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2C 

20 

V 



THE 


New York Fashion Bazar. 

THE BEST AMERICAN HOME MAGAZINE. 

Price 35 Cents Per Copy ; $S.OO Per Year. 


All yearly subscribers on our list on the first of December will be 
entitled to a beautiful chromo, entitled: 

“ HAPPY AS A KING.” 

The New York Fashion Bazar is a magazine for ladies. It 
contains everything which a ladj^’s magazine ought to contain. 
The fashions in dress which it publishes are new and reliable. Par- 
ticular attention is devoted to fashions for children of all ages. Its 
plates and descriptions will assist every lady in the preparation of 
her wardrobe, both in making new dresses and remodeling old ones. 
The fashions are derived from the best houses and are always prac- 
tical as well as new anr* tasteful. 

Every lady reader of The New York Fashion Bazar can make 
her own dresses with the aid of Munro’s Bazar Patterns. These are 
carefully cut to measure and pinned into the perfect semblance of the 
garment. They are useful in altering old as well as in making new 
clothing. 

The Bazar Embroidery Supplements form an important part of 
the magazine. Fancy work is carefully described and illustrated, 
and new patterns given in every number. 

All household matters are fully and interestingly treated. Home 
information, decoration, personal gossip, correspondence, and recipes 
for cooking have each a department. 

Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “ The Duch- 
ess,” author of “ Molly Bawn,” Lucy Kandall Comfort, Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 
and Mary E. Bryan. 

The stories published in The New York Fashion Bazar are the 
best that can be had. 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 TO 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


THE CELEBRATED 



GEAND,. SQUARE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 

Centennial Exnibi- 
tion, 1876 ; Montreal, 
1881 and 1883. 

The enviable po- 
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American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
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They are used 
in Conservato- 
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uneq.ualed dura- 
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The SOHMER 
Piano is a special 
favorite with the 
leading musicians 
and critics. 


ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPUIiAR 
AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N» Y» 


THE 


“Short LineLimiteil” 


TO 


St. Paul and Minneapolis. 



THE 


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TO 


Milwaukee and Waukesha. 


IT TRAVERSES THE MOST DESIR.'.LLE PORTIONS OP 

ILUNOIS, IOWA, NEBRASKA, WISCONSIN, MINNESOTA, DAKOTA, 
WYOMING AND NORTHERN MICHIGAN. 


hTHE . popular . short . LINEk 


MINNEAPOLIS, 
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BETWEEN 

CHICAGO, MILWAUKEE, MADISON, ST. PAUL, 

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AND AliX, POINTS IN THE "WEST AND NORTHWEST. 

PALACE SLEEPING CARS, PALATIAL DINING CARS 

AND SUPERB DAY COACHES ON THROUGH TRAINS. 

Close Connections in Union Depots with Branch and Connecting Lines. 

ALL AGENTS SELL TICKETS VIA THE NORTH-WESTERN. 


Hew York OfHce, 409 Broadway. 
Boston Office, 6 State Street. 
tUnneapolU Office, IS Nicollet Honse. 


Chicago Office, 62 Clark St. 
Omaha Office, 1411 Farnam St. 
St. Faal Office, 159 E. Third St. 


Denver Office, 8 Windsor Hotel Block. 

San Irancisco Office, 2 New Hontgnmery St. 
Uilwaukee Office, 102 Wiwuosin Street. 




General Passenger Agent, CHICAGO, ILL. 










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LIBRARY BINOINB 


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ST. AUGUSTINE P. C ' * 

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